


stop, drop, and drag me into place

by redribbonmagpie



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (eventually) - Freeform, A Michael Shelly Is Alive fic, Amanda Shelley, And Of Course - Freeform, Body Horror, But There's Trauma First, Dr. Olivia Merrifield, EDIT: new and improved tags, Fixing Fuckups and Found Family: the fic, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, General Trauma, Hurt/Comfort, Jack King - Freeform, M/M, Panic Attacks, Probably ooc, Robin Taylor - Freeform, The Spiral, The Stranger - Freeform, Trust Issues, autistic!michael, but who cares, cause fuck you this is MY fic, everyone gets a happy ending, hes also anemic, i guess I'll make Tages for them in case I use them again, i have so Many goddamn oc's in this. fuck, identity crisis, jonmartin, ok this sounds dark but it's really not!!, so you guessed it, some good good, this is MY comfort fic SHHHHH, trans Michael? Of Course!, tws for, with some good good, you get some part time nonverbal Michael (during panic attacks)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:15:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 31,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22867729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redribbonmagpie/pseuds/redribbonmagpie
Summary: Michael Shelley stumbled through a door that had not been there before..In other words, Michael shows up at the Institute (mostly) human and Jon and Martin have to work together to help him.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 116
Kudos: 351





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song Choke by I DONT KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME (which gives off heavy Magnus Archives Vibes to me go listen to it)

Michael Shelly stumbled through a door that had not been there before and into a grimy alleyway.   
Heart catching in his throat, he scooted away on his hands and knees, panickedly looking behind him just in time to see the chipped yellow door swing back into nothing. A glimpse of the thing, the Woman Who Was And Was Not, the spiraling, nauseating neon illusions of her almost-face breaking into what would have been a grin if not for the tiny, screaming versions of herself in place of teeth was visible for a split second as it shut. The creaking noise that shouldn’t have been coming from the hingeless door and that sickly, final thud echoed through the cramped vein of sidewalk that ran off a backstreet.   
Micheal had just enough sense left to keep his sweaty, clenched hand tight around the map he held as he stood up, legs trembling, and began his breathless run back to the only thing still solid in his mind: The Institute. 

0-0-0-0

The Institute was quiet in the midday sun, but it was a content stillness, like a lounging cat basking in the warmth. The short, squat dark building seemed to close in on itself, as if it was glaring at the passers-by who eyed it with such curious incredulously, eyes not staring as they should but flickering away as if looking too long hurt the eyes. A sullen echo of annoyance filled the rooms with sticky heat, as if grumbling about the rubbed off effect of the Spiral.   
Of course, few inside the building noticed the changes, or if they did, complained about the faulty air conditioning and swearing that they would get on Elias’s ass about it just as soon as they were done. (They were never done, the papers rustling filling the small hollow in their chest, the stale coffee somehow still delicious, the smell of dust feeling them with joy, making their eyes bright. Their complaints died as soon as they were voiced).   
The Watcher and the Archives saw Michael long before he came into view.   
Just barely lurching out of the way of an angry, honking taxi, he crossed the final crosswalk that separated him from his destination. Exhaustion had sunk deep into the marrow of his bones, muscles unused to movement ached and trembled. Weakly pushing open the front doors, he ignored the bored welcome of the attendant at the front desk asking if he was here for a statement and walked as briskly as he could manage without falling over to the door that lead to the Archives.   
Even as his hand alighted on the doorknob, he whimpered, suddenly seized with the fear that the smooth oak would become chipped paint and the hallway beyond would be that damned peeling wallpaper and waiting for him would be the Woman Who Was And Was Not And she would laugh her horrible, twisted, stolen laugh and-  
“Sir?”   
There was a hand on his shoulder and he flinched away, wide panicked eyes meeting the worried gaze of the receptionist. He realized, finally, that he was crying, sobs threatening to overtake him. His hands flapped uncontrollably, and he gestured weakly at the door, a small whine escaping him as panic threatens to swallow him again. Confused and concerned, the receptionist asked him a question, but Michael couldn’t hear, the static in his mind growing loud. He gestured again, more desperately, and the woman hesitantly opened the door for him. The second the plain, beige walls of the Archives beyond were visible, he scampered through, fleeing from the questions of the receptionist, losing himself in the comforting halls of the Archives. They weren’t like the halls of the Place That Never Was, no mocking painted daffodils or mirrors that showed glimpses of his ragged, bitten fingernails or watery colorless eyes that bled into spiraling pits, nothing like the prison he had been in for… for how long? Thinking about time hurt his head, and so he abandoned the idea as soon as he had grasped it.   
By the time he came out of his head, he was at the entrance to the working area where Gertrude and his fellow assistants- why couldn’t he remember their faces, or their names?- had spent so many hours. Muscle memory took over and the door opened, a silent motion that sent a shiver of relief through him.   
But the place inside wasn't as he had remembered. Had he remembered? Or was it all just a dream, clips from his imagination? But his gut screamed Wrong, screamed Off.   
There were people, in the open area with desks and boxes of statements. That, at least, was the same, but wrong too. Their positions were different, the boxes too neat, the people strangers.   
They stared at him, and he stared back. He didn’t even know if he could speak.   
“Michael.” It was a man who spoke first, tall and dark-skinned with wild dark hair. He was defensive, arms crossed over his chest. -fearful? Afraid, maybe? There was an edge to his voice that was odd. And- of course. Michael. That was his name. But the man was a stranger, someone Michael had never met. So how…?   
The others in the room, he noticed as he finally broke his stock still position to turn his head, were equally as nervous, or confused. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He bit his lip, hands slowly resuming their frantic motion.  
“This isn’t funny,” a different man said, voice trembling a bit. He was short, stocky, soft looking with round glasses and mousy hair. He reminded Michael of someone, someone important- but the memory slid away as soon as he tried to look for it. “Stop playing tricks.”  
He whimpered a little. He didn’t like their stares, their watching, judging eyes. He wanted to put his hands to his ears, but to do that would mean he would have to still them, and that was unbearable.   
“Melanie, get Jon,” one of the women said. The other woman- Melanie she had said- scurried into the adjoining office. The woman who spoke was stern looking, brown skin with a hijab on. Her voice, so confident and stern, reminded him of Gertrude.   
Gertrude. She could help. She would know what to do, she would help.   
Even as he thought her name, his hands flickered out the letters in ASL, old instincts from when his non-verbal fits lasted hours. A small glimmer of recognition sparked in the short man’s eyes.   
“Tim, he was signing.”  
“Martin, come on. Don’t tell me you’re fooled by this,” Tim said, momentarily breaking his glare at Michael to glare at Martin, who was suitably cowed.   
Michael signed it again, and again, hopeful. G E R T R U D E.   
“Gertrude?” Martin said slowly. Tim and the other woman turned to glare at him.   
“That’s what he said! Well, signed,” Martin said quickly, pointing at Michael, still in the doorway.   
N E E D H E R, Michael signed, eyes wide, staring at Martin, hoping for help.   
“What did he say?” Tim asked quickly.   
“He said he needs her,” Martin said, a small frown crossing his face.   
At last the door to the side office opened, revealing a tired looking man with dark skin and grey in his otherwise pitch black hair, a tape recorder cradled in his arms. The woman who had gone in to get him stood behind him, as if he could protect her from whatever was happening.   
“Jon,” The woman with the hijab snapped. “Deal with- with- this thing.”   
“Basira, I- Oh. Michael.” Jon’s eyes narrowed as he finally caught sight of the doorway. Michael turned back to Martin, desperately signing N E E D G over and over.   
“Jeez- slow down, I’m not exactly fluent,” Martin said, biting his lip. Jon glances over at him.   
“Is it sign language?” He asked, brows furrowed.   
“Fingerspelling,” Martin said distractedly, focusing on Michaels still moving hands. “He- He said he needs to see Gertrude.”  
“It’s some sick joke,” Tim snarled. “It’s toying with us.”   
“What is your name?” Jon said, turning his dark stare onto Michael.  
He signed without even thinking, entranced and terrified of the man with the greying hair.   
“He said Michael,” Martin said, a bit helplessly.   
“Exactly,” Basira said. “We know. So get it out, Jon.”   
“What about your last name?” Jon asked, not breaking eye contact, ignoring Basira. Michael was reminded of when Gertrude used to ask him questions, and how he’d find himself readily offering up the answer whether he wanted to or not.   
“Sh- Shelly? I think I’m saying that right,” Martin said hesitantly. Jon’s eyes widened a little, something the others didn’t notice but Michael, still transfixed by the man, did.   
T I R E D H U R T N E E D H E R, he signed, and Martin translated word for word.  
“...it can’t be,” Jon murmured, still staring transfixed at Michael. “It’s impossible. You can’t have gotten out of the door.”   
Y O U K N O W O F D O O R ? he spelled quickly, unable to contain his surprise. S P I R A L D O O R ?   
“He wants to know if you’re talking about the Spiral’s do- wait. Jon… do you think this is the real Michael? Michael Shelly?”  
“It might.”  
“This is ridiculous. You’re falling for its illusion,” Basira said, and Tim nodded vehemently.  
“We have to be sure,” Jon said. “We can’t turn him away if he’s really him.”   
P L E A S E W H E R E G E R T R U D E ?   
“Gone. We- we’ll help. What do you need?”   
Michael thought for a moment. It was odd, all the feelings inside him now that he had escaped the halls. He could barely recognize some of them. His eyes felt heavy, though, and his stomach- was that what it was called?- ached.   
R E S T , he signed. H E R E? He added, unsure.   
Martin nodded.   
“There’s a cot in the back. Here, I’ll show you.”   
Numbly, the tremors back in his sore legs, Michael followed Martin through the open area and down a short hall to a small room that Martin opened, revealing a cot covered in rumpled blankets surrounded by boxes. A few other possessions were scattered around the room, including some loose articles of clothing  
“Sorry it’s a bit messy, I crash here sometimes,” Martin said with a slight flush. “Sorry, can you hear me? Oh, that’s rude, I’m so sorry-“  
C A N H E A R. A N D T A L K W H E N C A L M.   
“Oh,” Martin said, a bit surprised. “That’s good to know.” He walked back over to the door, and Michael couldn’t help but whine a little. Martin turned back.   
“What is it?”  
N O G O. P L E A S E.   
“Oh. Alright.”  
He walked back over and hesitantly sat down on the ground, shoving some boxes aside to do so. Michael didn’t even bother to take any of his clothes off, not even his sweatshirt or shoes, though the metal zipper dug into his chest a little. As if as many layers as possible would keep him safe, he pulled the blankets on top of him, then curled up tightly on his side, arms hugging his knees to his chest. It was like this, with the steady sound of Martin’s breathing next to him, that he drifted to a restless but deep sleep. 


	2. Chapter 2 (Electric Bugaloo- Just Kidding)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some deep thoughts, but, also new clothes!

When he woke up, he had a second of panic that he was back in the halls. He shoved the blankets off and shot up straight, listening for sounds like frightened prey. When he felt a soft hand on his shoulder, he flinched.   
“Oh, Sorry. No touching.”   
And then things fell back, shattered memories clicking back into place.   
Martin sat next to him, pulling back his hand from where it had rested. Relaxing slightly, Michael tugged the blankets back up so he could hug them to his chest.   
“... safe?” He asked. His voice was so hoarse and crackly from disuse, he barely recognized it.   
Martin blinked, then nodded. “Yea. You’re safe. Here is safe.”  
Michael nodded.   
“... I’m hungry,” he admitted, not making eye contact.  
“Oh! Ok. Uh, Jon went out for coffee, I can text him to bring you back something? What do you want?”  
“Tea? Um. Earl grey with two creamers and a sugar. Please.”   
Martin nodded, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans. “And for food?”  
“...anything. But lots.” As if on cue, his stomach rumbled. Martin smiled a little, pulling out his smartphone.  
“...what’s that?” Michael asked, leaning over slightly to get a better look.   
“This?”  
He nodded.   
“Oh, it’s a smartphone. -I guess you didn’t have those, huh? You have some catching up.”   
Michael frowned.   
“... how long?”  
“Hm?” Martin looked up from what he was texting.   
“How long was I…. i… in the Place That Never Was?”   
“Is that what you call it?” He asked curiously. Michael nodded.   
“... Jon would know exactly, but… my guess would be 10 years.”   
His voice was soft, apologetic, as if afraid Michael would break again. As if he was already broken.   
“...oh.”   
“It’s alright, though,” Martin added hurriedly. “You’re back now, that’s what matters.”  
He nodded, but it was just instinct taking over. Inside, his head reeled. A decade, there and then gone, and not even there. A decade in those halls with the mirrors and the daffodils and the Thing That Could Not Be that turned into the Woman Who Was And Was Not. A decade that passed in what felt like a century crammed into a second.   
A whole decade.   
“Jon shouldn’t be too long with the food and drinks,” Martin said, eager to change the subject. “In the mean time… let’s see if we can find some new clothes.”  
Michael looked down, having largely forgotten about his clothes. His purple sweater, something he’d bought on sale specifically for his final trip. His grungy, worn grey sweatshirt, tugged uncomfortably over the bulky yarn. Jeans with holes ripped at the knees from all the times he stumbled in the halls, ruined tennis shoes that the toes and heels were peeling off of. He bit his lip.  
“..ok.”   
Martin stood, and Michael followed, comforted by the routine of having someone to follow who would tell him what to do.   
“Basira, Tim, and Melanie are out for the day,” Martin chatted as they walked. “Jon gave them a day off. We thought it was probably better for it to be the fewest people possible.”  
Michael nodded appreciatively, fingers rising instinctively to his mouth.   
“That necklace you’ve got is pretty. Where’d you get it?”   
Startled, his finger left his mouth, and he glanced down. Strung on a cord was a triangle shaped piece of rubber, a bright aqua. There were noticeable teeth marks on it.   
“Oh. It’s chewable. So I don’t mess with my nails as much,” he said. How long had he forgotten about it, in the decade he was stuck? Certainly long enough that his nails had suffered the price. Nervously, he lifted it up and put it in his mouth, nibbling on the end while keeping a careful eye on Martin. When he didn’t seem to mind, Michael relaxed just slightly more.   
“Ah, here,” Martin said, pulling out a plastic tote bin. “It's the lost and found, so it'll be a bit of a guessing game, but.” He shrugged.   
Michael began to rummage through the bin, pulling out things to check their size, setting possibilities aside. Martin went over to what was clearly his desk, judging by the way he fished through the pockets of the jacket slung over the back of the chair, looking for something.  
By the time Michael had picked out a handful of options, Martin walked back over and offered something up. It was a ponytailer, but instead of the typical black, it was a bright, cheerful orange.   
“I buy extra ponytailers because Jon always loses his, but he refuses to wear the colourful ones, so… you can use it, I mean, if you want to tie your hair up,” he finished awkwardly.   
“Thanks,” Michael said quietly, feeling a small bloom of warmth grow in his chest. He took the ponytailer and gathered back his long, tangled blond hair, tying it back with the efficiency of someone who has done this their whole life.   
“And I can see your face better!” Martin said delightedly. That wasn't quite how Michael felt, but it didn't bother him as much as it had used to, and Martin seemed safe.   
“So! Got some choices picked out?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments are like rocket fuel to my tiny sleep deprived brain
> 
> if you too would like to scream about the characters, find me at @redribbonmagpie on instagram (I am 90% sure I will post art of this fic on there) or @hoidingaroundthecosmere on tumblr. heck man you don't even have to talk you can just send me random stuff you like it's cool


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pastries, panic attacks, and hair brushing. All in all, not too bad.

When Jon walked in, it was to a newly-dressed Michael curled up in Martin’s chair, eyes locked on the screen of what was clearly Martin’s phone, swiping through what sounded like some game. Martin looked up first, eyes brightening as he saw Jon.  
“You're back! Here, let me help.”   
As he hurried over to take some of the many drinks and bags of food, Michael looked up. He wore a white and pink striped t-shirt and fresh jeans with bright purple socks just visible under a worn pair of red converses. Jon actually had to blink to make sure he wasn't seeing things.   
“..wow. That's not quite how I expected you to dress, from what I heard of you,” he said honestly, setting down the bags and drinks on Martin’s abruptly cleared desk. Michael cocked his head.  
“What do you mean?”  
“Oh, I've just heard clips of you on some of Gertrude's recordings,” he said, handing Michael a to-go cup. “Earl grey, two creams, one sugar?”   
He nodded, taking a sip and recoiling a little as it burned.   
“Yea, I'd let that cool as you eat,” Martin said, unpacking plastic bags full of pastries. “Christ, Jon, did you buy half the bakery?”  
“I wasn't sure what it-he wanted,” Jon said, cheeks flushing a little. “And you said he was hungry.” He took a small sip of his own drink, then set it down.   
Michael had already begun to unwrap a chocolate muffin as they argued, and the second the plastic was off, he swallowed the muffin whole, eyes still wide and attentive.  
Both men stopped to stare at him.  
“...I guess the Spiral rubbed off a bit,” Jon said, though he couldn't disguise the slight worry in his voice.  
“W-what?” Michael asked, confused, hands already wrapped around a packaged scone. “Did I do something wrong?”   
“It's… we can figure it out later,” Jon relented, and Michael resumed eating, gulping down a scone that was just slightly too big for a normal person to fit in their mouth.   
It took a seemingly too large amount of food before he finally slowed, testing his tea again. Satisfied it wasn't too hot, he drained the cup. Martin was much better about not staring than Jon was.   
“So! Uh, what else… Michael, can you think of anything else you need?”  
“Probably a shower,” he admitted, messing with a loose paperclip on the desk. “And to brush my hair.”   
Martin was already nodding and rubbing his hands together, an oddly adorable thing he did when he was planning ahead, when Jon interrupted.   
“I've got a hairbrush in my office. Wait.”  
As he walked over and unlocked the office, Michael looked at Martin quizzically.  
“He practically lives here. Crashes even more than I do. Other than when I was living here because of Jane Prentis- but that's a long story.”   
Michael nodded, hands flapping quietly under the desk, trying to hide them from Martin. But the movement caught the other man's gaze, and his eyes widened worriedly.  
“-are you upset?” He asked nervously, starting to flap his hands himself a little. “Oh, did I do something wrong? Di-”  
“S’okay,” Michael interrupted quickly. “It's- I don't just do it when I'm sad or scared. It just- sometimes I need to. It's right.”   
Martin looked a little confused, but nodded.   
“If you're sure you're ok,” he said, and Michael nodded assuringly.   
Jon came back out of the office, and noticed Martin’s still wringing hands. He quickly walked over, resting his free hand on top of one of Martin’s. Quickly, Martin’s breathing seemed to slow as he remembered to take a deep breath. Michael noticed this, but didn't comment.   
“Mind if I try to brush it? I’m used to dealing with unruly hair,” Jon said, with a semi-faked confidence. Michael nodded, a bit wary.   
“You can tell me if you want me to stop, you know. Or if you want Martin to do it,” Jon added. “I get it. I don't trust many people either.”  
“You trust Martin,” Michael pointed out, tugging out the orange ponytailer and sliding it onto his wrist. Martin’s cheeks pinkened a little.   
“We might need scissors, in case there's any bad tangles. I'll, um, go get them,” he said, then quickly walked away. Michael watched him, mouth turned in a confused frown.   
“Did I say something wrong?” He asked, still looking after where Martin had gone further into the Archives.   
“No,” Jon said, then sighed a little. “Mind sitting on the floor, so I can be in the chair? That’d be the easiest.”   
Michael shrugged and carefully slid off onto the floor, watching as Jon took his place.  
“But you trust Martin,” he said, glancing over at Jon. “And he trusts you.”   
“If you say so. He doesn't have much reason to,” Jon said, beginning to brush at the top layer. Michael bit his lip as the tangles were tugged at, sending tears to his eyes.   
“Still does.”   
“I suppose.”   
Michael yelped as the brush caught on a mat, tugging his head backwards. Jon’s hands grew more careful, setting aside the brush to pick at the clump with his fingers, slowly unraveling it.   
“You work here?”   
“Mhm. Head Archivist.”  
Michael froze, stiffening like a deer in headlights. Jon clearly noticed, because he paused.   
“...Michael?”  
His hands flapped more, and he ached to rock back and forth, to lose himself in the comforting motion, so he didn't have to think, to think about the Wrong words.   
“Michael, are you ok?”  
The trip had been so cold, the wind biting like a wild dog. He’d regretted not bringing a spare scarf, since his first had been lost in the boarding shuffle. Gertrude, bundled up though she was, hadn't seemed to notice the cold, staring at the churning ice crested water below. He’d joined her at the railing, when his runny nose and fear of the bustle and noise above deck hadn't pinned him in the black, dank hold. She’d seemed more far off than usual, the sort of frigid brittle that she was whenever assistants disappeared. He hadn't noticed, at the time. He'd just worried about whether or not her body could handle the cold.   
“Can you hear me?”   
‘Just go through the door and follow the map,’ she'd whispered to him. Fear had churned in his stomach, nausea threatening to overtake him as he watched those Impossible Things twist and contort in a so very Wrong mockery of a dance. She’d pointed at the door, the worn door with the chipped pale yellow paint and no hinges, the door that he now Hated and Feared in equal measure, and she’d said ‘That's the one. Go. I’ll see you on the other side.’   
He had not seen her. There had not been another side. Not for a very, very long time.   
He came back and things felt fuzzy. He heard concerned voices over him, but no touching. Good. His cheeks felt wet, tracked with tears, nose caked with dried snot. He felt a low, steady shame burn through him, a shame he hadn't felt in years.   
“Michael?”  
S H E G O N E.  
“...yea. Dead.”  
H U R T ?   
“...I don't know.”  
H A T E, He signed suddenly, angrily. A few more tears rolled down his face. L E F T M E.   
“I know. I know. But we won't leave you, ok?”  
Michael finally looked up, to see both Jon and Martin had sat down on the floor in front of him. He finally broke his rocking to wipe at his tears. Martin offered a tissue, and he took it.  
“Do you want me to keep brushing your hair?”   
Michael paused, then nodded. It felt good, to clean the Place That Never Was out of him, slowly, bit by bit. His fingers rose to his mouth instinctively, but pulled the necklace out at the last second. The second the rubber was in his mouth he began to chew at it, the familiarity soothing.  
T A L K ? He spelt out to Martin, who nodded.   
“What about?”  
Michael shrugged, the message being “anything”. Jon began his gentle work on the tangle again, and Martin began a rousing mostly one-sided conversation about his new flat, with Jon’s occasional flat, often sarcastic comments and Michael’s usually one word prompts.   
And despite all the hurt, all the aching inside, Michael began to feel just the slightest bit at home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey uhhh y'alls comments got me screaming with joy but I'm too anxious to respond personally so. here's some more? (Also oral stuff is never brought up but like! That's my jam! My anxious ADHD autistic ass can't stop chewing on pen caps! Or necklaces! It's not pretty but it's something I decided I would project onto Michael (I have art of Gerry giving him the necklace actually mentioned in the fic on my instagram account because boohoo I'm a hopeless queer)). If you want me to spontaneously combust comment some more! if you want me to ascend into the ninth dimension you would need to draw fanart and send it to me (or just @ me). Im so glad yall like my stupid mind baby hnghhhhhh


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And they were roommates, I guess? Also, cute neighbours with familiar last names, Michael VS The Internet, Martin and Jon dancing around eachother as always, some mild dysphoria and the side effects of the Fears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for mild disphoria/body-image hate near the end. Let me know if you want a version without it, I'd be happy to provide <3

They had decided that Martin’s flat was the best place for him to stay.   
The Archives were well and good, but not an actual apartment, and with no real bathrooms. Since Michael didn't want to sleep without someone else nearby, and since he had no money or I.D or anything, really, crashing on the pullout bed in the flat’s living room seemed to be the best choice for everyone.   
The ride from the Archives to the flat had been harrowing, the noises too loud and people too crowded, the thick putrid stench of exhaust nearly choking him. He’d cried quietly in the backseat, Jon glancing back worriedly when stopped in traffic and Martin signing comforts. The thick, padded headphones had helped, something Jon had found in his office before they left, and the muffling static had been a comfort during the short ride.   
Once they’d arrived, Jon parked Martin’s small red car and Martin and Michael had entered the building itself. It was quiet, sleepy as the clock neared noon. The few people they encountered had been engrossed in their phones, or focused on the path ahead. When they’d finally stopped at a plain looking door with the number 212 on it, Michael was actually feeling something near calm.   
Martin fumbled with his keys, frowning as his grip shifted at the last second. Michael watched, eyes wide, drinking in everything.   
“Does Jon live in this one too?”   
Martin jolted upright, face turning pink. He quickly avoided looking at Michael, and cleared his throat.  
“Uhm. No.”   
Michael blinked. “Really?”  
“Did you think we did?” Martin squeaked out, flushing even more.   
“I-I guess I was wrong, then. Sorry.”  
Martin finally slid the key in the door, and gratefully took the opportunity to busy himself with opening in and walking inside. Michael followed, lingering in the doorframe frame unsurely, stiffening until he realised the wall paper wasn't floral patterned and that the hardwood floors were a smooth brown, not like the grey weather worn boards of the Place That Never Was. He stepped in, hand lingering in the doorknob.   
“Should we leave it open, for Jon?” He asked, hesitant. Martin, who was bustling around the couch, pulled on a half hidden lever. The squeak of springs filled the room, and the pullout bed sprung into shape.  
“Text him,” He said distractedly, then stopped, having remembered Michael didn't have a phone. “Here, borrow mine. Tap on the thing that looks like a speech bubble, look for his name.”   
Martin extended his hand with the plain grey cased phone in it, and Michael took it gingerly, looking for what Martin had said. It took him an embarrassingly long few seconds to find it, then he began to scroll through the small catalogue of names, looking for the J’s. Jon, Sims the contact read. Somehow, without ever seeing the name spelled out before, Michael had known that there was no h in Jon’s name.  
“What's the small heart next to it for?” Michael asked, confused.   
“Oh,” Martin said, sounding a bit sheepish. “Hes.. Hes, uh, on my favourites list. It means he's one of my emergency contacts. In case I, er, got hurt. Or something like that. Just, um, send him the room number.”   
Michael did as he was told, clumsily typing out the room number. The message was read, but no response was sent. Michael stared at it for a minute blankly before Martin broke his trance.   
“Here. I'll go get some blankets, but… this’ll be your area. My bedrooms the door on the left, the bathrooms, to the right, kitchen’s right there, obviously. How many blankets do you want?”  
Michael blinked, looking up to see Martin had finished setting up the bed.   
“Lots,” He said. “As many as you’ll give me.”  
As Martin disappeared into the bedroom, there was a knock at the door. Michael opened it eagerly, expecting Jon, but on the other side was a young man about his age with a shock of dark hair shoved under a beanie and thick rimmed glasses. He looked awkward, shuffling from foot to foot nervously, an envelope clutched in his hands.   
“Oh! Uh, are you,” the man paused to read the envelope, “Martin Blackwood? I, um, think I got your mail by accident.”   
Michael stood there, hand on the doorframe, mind blank as to what to do or say.  
“...I'm Michael,” He said finally, quiet and almost timid. “But Martin lives here. I'm just staying with him for a while.”   
The man looked sympathetic. “Hard times, huh? I know the feeling.”  
Michael nodded, because what was he going to say, that he had been trapped in an endless maze of hallways for a decade?   
“Well, could you give this to him?” The man said, offering over the envelope. “I'm Jack, by the way. I live next door, in 211. I'm home most of the time, so, if you ever need anything, don't be afraid to ask.”   
“Jack who?” Michael blurted out, curiosity overwhelming him.   
“Michael who?” Jack replied with a broadening smile.  
“...Shelly. Michael Shelly.”  
“Jack King. Nice to meet you.”  
There was a second of silence, in which the two just looked at eachother, an apprehensive surge of affection that neither could quite voice floating in the air between them. Then Jon came walking down the hall quickly, a protective look in his eyes, and Jack backed off.   
“See you around,” he said, and with one curious look at Jon, he slipped back into his own apartment. When Jon had finally reached Michael, it was clear he was slightly out of breath and his eyes were narrowed warily.   
“Was he bothering you?” He asked. Michael shook his head.   
“He was returning mail,” he said, offering the envelope up as proof. “And he didn't seem bad. Seemed kind of nice, actually.”   
“As long as he wasn't bothering you,” Jon said, relaxing noticeably and peering around Michael a little to catch glimpses of the apartment inside. “So, this is Martin’s place?”   
Michael nodded and stepped aside, letting him go through them closing the door behind him. Martin had just emerged from the bedroom, a pile of quilts in his arms.  
“What was that all about?” He asked curiously.  
“A neighbour,” Michael said. “With your mail. Here.”   
“Oh, just set it on the counter- ah, can I have a little help?”   
Just before the pile teetered and fell, Jon sprung forward and took the top few, restoring balance. As they set both stacks down, Martin looked sheepishly grateful.   
“That's all the blankets in the closet,” he said. “We can get more, if you need, but-”   
“That’s plenty,” Michael said hurriedly, setting down the envelope. “Thank you.”   
“Oh, it’s no problem,” Martin said, waving his hand dismissively. “Now… uh, I don’t really have any groceries right now. Um, I can get you an account on my laptop, so you can use the Internet- that’ll help fill in the stuff you, well, missed. In the meantime, you want to take a shower?”   
“..sure?”  
“I’ll get some food,” Jon said, hands already reaching for the keys in his pocket. Martin began to stutter out some reason he didn’t need to go, but Jon just shook his head.  
“It’s fine, Martin. I’ve got it. I’ll get other stuff that Michael will need too, while I’m there. Any specific stuff you need?   
Michael paused, not making eye-contact.   
“...um, I’m anemic, so maybe some iron supplements? And, uh… I should probably get a new binder.”  
Martin’s face scrunched up in confusion. “Like, a school binder? For organiz- oh!”  
“That’s something we should probably shop for with you,” Jon said honestly. “We could do it when we go with you to get more clothes. Will you be alright for a few more days?”   
Michael nodded, still nervously watching the two. Martin seemed embarrassed that he hadn't caught on, and was stammering out an apology. Jon seemed to have accepted the fact in stride, without a falter in his voice or a change in his expression. Michael wouldn't have been surprised to know that Jon had already known, despite not having mentioned it at all.   
It wasn't something he liked mentioning. It felt so private, so personal, that simply saying out loud “I'm trans” had taken him years to muster up the courage to do. And usually, that was fine, because if he quietly corrected people's pronouns and introduced himself as Michael, well, they didn't ask why his middle name was Beck, or why he always insisted on wearing loose fitting clothes, and it wasn't really anyone's business anyways. It was always nerve-wracking when someone finally figured it out, even when they didn't react at all. Gertrude, as old fashioned as she may have been, had called him a boy even before he introduced himself, and he could fool himself that he passed that well that it went under the woman’s radar.   
But it hurt, thinking about Gertrude, so instead he quietly assured Martin that his slip up was alright, and Martin showed him the bathroom, and assured him he could use anything he wanted in there before leaving him to it.  
It was a small room, tight without being cramped. He checked the door was locked nervously before he took off his new clothes.   
Michael had always hated his body. It was frail, skinny, with bones bulging in all the too obvious places. No matter how much he tried to eat, his ribs were still visible indents in his chest, face still gaunt, hands too knobbly, elbows too sharp. He wasn't actually tall, but gangly, giving the impression of height where there was none. That, and his incredibly pale, papery skin, made people often double glance upon first meetings. He hated it all: his long nose, his pale eyes, the hints of curves, his breasts.   
There was more to hate, now. Michael hadn’t told Jon or Martin, not about the spiraling scars on his ankles and wrists he’d noticed when he was changing, or how they moved when he looked at them too long. He didn't tell them about the way he’d shift sometimes, and suddenly his arms would be just slightly too long or his mouth just slightly too big.  
He stared in the mirror, clothes carefully folded on the counter next to him, shivering a little, and watched as the watery blue of his irises turned into a hypnotic swirl of bleeding iridescent patterns.   
He looked away, turned on the shower, and ignoring the changes in his reflection, stepped inside. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the small delay, I was trying to figure out exactly how much I wanted to introduce in this chapter! Jack is an oc but he's purely made up for this fic and he's mostly just another friend/emotional support bc Michael deserves it (Have you guessed who he's related too? Lol, it's not hard to guess). Also, let me know it the end was a bit too close to triggering for you, and I can edit/rewrite it/keep it in mind for later chapters. And since you guys have been AMAZING with comments, I was wondering if I could have some advice:   
> \- how much do you want Jack to be involved? (Also, I already know he's had a run in with one of the fears, but if you guys have suggestions for details, I'd love to hear)  
> \- how much do you want me to play with Michael's abilities caused by the Spiral? (I've also used some more subtle things involving stuff caused by his former association with the Eye. Thoughts on that as well?)   
> \- thoughts on me making a therapist that Michael and possible some of the other characters to go to? (I could even make it Melanie's therapist, but the idea would be they accidently get involved with the Fears and realise their patients are being completely serious)   
> Your shower of compliments have fuelled me and I absolutely adore them all (they brighten my day whenever I see them)! Thanks for reading!! <3
> 
> Me, at myself: let's set up some future plot points  
> Also me: ok, but what if Michael just started googling some stuff


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael vs The Internet 2, featuring an angst break, morning routines, borrowed clothes, subreddits, a familiar face, a very cute plant, and a small deviation from our normal POV.

Michael only lets himself think about the past in parts.  
It hurts. He can't deny that- every time he remembers, everything he now knows is gone- it makes him feel like his heart has been ripped out of his chest and put through a meat grinder. He tries not to, so the panic doesn't crawl up from his chest and swallow him, but he can't do it forever.  
The apartment was quiet with Martin and Jon both gone, the bustle of the night before made hazy by sleep. It was just the hum of the heater for company, and a note a page long next to him in what must be Martin’s hurried scrawl detailing how to work the microwave, the TV, and the laptop, as well as recommending things to do for the day.  
The small clock that hung on the wall read nine o clock, far later than Michael was used to sleeping to, though his sleep rhythm was still off from the- from the time he was gone. He went into the bathroom and splashed some water on his face, then used the hairbrush on the counter to tug out the new tangles in his hair. There were new toiletries on the counter, a small jar of iron supplements and a new toothbrush that hadn't been there when he had showered the night before. Swallowing the pills was easy, and was comforting to pick up the shards of what had once been his morning routine and try and click them back into place. Clothing was more of an issue, and it took some sheepish rummaging in Martin’s closet for him to find a pink sweater that most certainly wasn't Martin’s size and a baggy pair of drawstring shorts as well as, most embarrassingly, a pair of boxers and a pair of striped rainbow socks that were shoved in the back of the drawer. He changed quickly, not looking in the mirror, before wandering back out into the main area.   
The kitchen and living room had only a small ridge of wall that followed the table in the center separating the two, leaving the space largely open. Opening the blinds let in the morning’s sun, and remembering the rambling part in Martin’s note about breakfast, Michael looked in the cupboards. Jon’s taste in food was abundantly clear by what purchases had stocked the cabinets- a new box of earl grey tea packets sat front and center one one of the counters, not even tucked away, and a variety of granola bars, cereal, and other general snack type foods made up most of the items. There was some fruit in a bowl on the table, and there was yogurt, milk, and cheese in the fridge. Michael put the kettle on before finally choosing an apple. He ate it quietly, rereading the lengthy note and debating about what he should do next, then went over to the table and opened the computer that was plugged in there. Following Martin’s detailed instructions, he clicked on the user called “Michael” before entering the given password. The screen finally loaded onto a plain blue background with a bar on the side of the screen and the bottom with many icons on them, very few of which Michael recognised.  
It took some clicking around before he found what appeared to be a search bar. Relieved by something he recognised, even though he wasn't sure what database it was a part of, he decided to try something simple at first.  
 _how to use internet_  
Within the second, thousands of results popped up, the recommended at the top. A bit overwhelmed, he clicked on one link that led to an article, which he briefly skimmed. Basically, whatever you were looking for, you could find it on here. The search engines- the one he was using was apparently called Google- were ways to sort through all the information in a neater way. There was a bunch on how to look at more specific stuff which Michael didn't understand or care about, so he clicked the back arrow, which the article had pointed out, and cleared the search bar before typing in something new.  
 _magnus institute_   
It brought up what appeared to be the institutes official website, which explained what Michael had already known. Looking through the other given websites, many were forum posts talking either about how they thought the place was a hoax, a cult, or actually true. A few even gave unofficial statements. Michael read through those that gave more detailed accounts, the old itching curiosity coming back. He stumbled across a forum post, where various anonymous users could post their opinions, that was talking about disappearances surrounding the institute. Frowning slightly, he typed in the search bar again.  
 _magnus institute disappearances_  
This brought up news stories, articles detailing reports on missing persons. Some names Michael recognized, through rumour, mostly, though a few names hit a bit closer to home. There were more forum posts as well, often amassing the news links or official given police reports and photos as well as listing their own suspicions about the victims. He clicked on some, skimming mostly, looking for names or faces he recognized, until he saw something that made him stop.   
“ _This one’s not a disappearance, but since this subthread is mostly keeping tracking of stuff that happened to employees of the institute, here’s a link to a story about Gerrad Key. He died in America, supposedly of cancer, but there was a restraining order filed against a Gertrude Robinson for trying to mess with the body after death_.”   
He couldn’t help but let out a small sob. The screen grew blurry as his eyes welled with tears, and then he gave in to it and let himself cry.   
Part of him already knew that Gerry was gone, but it was an all-together different thing to read it, and be forced to process it. They’d known each other for years, both working at the Archives, neither quite social enough to initiate much, but somehow working together despite that. It had been Gerry that had given Michael the necklace that was still strung around his neck, a slightly flustered exchange that had left Michael’s heart pounding but filled him with joy nonetheless.   
He wished now that he’d been bold enough to say something more.   
It wasn’t a full blown panic attack, the type that left him shaking and exhausted. It was just tears, grief welling up, so strong it overflowed. He sat there, sniffling, tears rolling down his cheeks, silent for a few minutes as he let himself mourn. Then, scrubbing away the dried remains of tears, he kept scrolling.   
He found his own name, of course. It was an odd feeling, reading stuff about his own disappearance, especially since he knew what really happened. They were off about the date, of course, because his landlord was the first to notice he was missing and it was a few weeks after the fact. There were theories he’d just moved, or taken an impromptu trip and stayed, but those were quickly shot down by the skeptics.   
Eventually, he closed out of the tab and stared at the search bar for a few minutes before he heard footsteps outside his door.   
Wondering if it was Martin returning, as well as an instinctive curiosity about any passers-by, Michael stood and crept over to door, using the peep hole to look at the hall outside. Outside was Melanie, the woman who worked at the Archives. She looked much calmer now, her dark curls neatly tied back, a jean-jacket sling over a shirt that read GHOST HUNTERS UK in a bold font. She was waiting impatiently, not at his door, but at Jack’s, clearly waiting for him or someone else inside to emerge. After ten seconds or so, he did, a beanie tugged over his head, wearing an artsy shirt for a band Michael didn’t recognize. In his hand he held a small potted succulent, and he talked briefly with Melanie before walking over to the door of Martin’s flat.   
Michael scurried back to the table, heart pounding, just as Jack knocked. He stood, frozen, then hesitantly went back over and opened the door, careful to make sure the handle stayed stubbornly round in his hand.   
Jack’s face broke into a friendly grin.  
“Hey! I was hoping you were here!”   
But Michael’s gaze had immediately locked in Melanie, and her eyes widened. At first there was fear and recognition, but it melted quickly into wariness. Michael wondered how she knew him, when he had never seen her before he arrived at the institute. However it was, it clearly hadn't been a positive experience.   
Jack picked up on the tension quickly, glancing between the two.  
“Oh. I take it you, uh, know each other?”  
“We’ve… had a few run ins,” Melanie said. Jack turned back to Michael, curiosity clear in his brown eyes.  
“Where do you know my sister from?”  
“...sister?”  
Looking, he could see the similarities. The same curly dark hair, the proud tilt of the chin, the spattering of freckles around the nose.   
“I'm Melanie. Melanie King,” she said almost tersely, arms crossed over his chest. “And you're… well, Michael. That's what you called yourself, anyways.”   
She was giving him daggers, but also a warning look: don't talk about this in front of Jack. Bewildered and intimidated, he was only too happy to go along.   
“Uh huh. Um, did you need anything?”   
“Oh!” Jack said, brightening up as he remembered, and offering the delicate plant over the threshold. “I have so many plants, so, I thought you might want one! It doesn't need much water, just a spot with good sunlight. It's an aloe polyphylla, but most people call it a spiral aloe. Oh. Sorry, you probably didn't want to know all that.”  
He laughed a little, and Michael numbly took the plant. Sure enough, the small sharp leaves were arranged in a tight spiral. He stared at it, almost entranced as his eyes traced the pattern over and over, so much so that it appears to move, turning in on itself, and endless coiling ouroborus of green. He was called back to reality when Melanie cleared her throat. He looked back up and she recoiled a little, then grabbed Jack’s arm.   
“It was good seeing you,” she said, but her cold tone made it clear the words were just a formality. “Come on Jack, lets go.”   
She dragged him off hurriedly, and he looked back and gave an apologetic shrug before disappearing down the hall. Closing the door behind him, Michael went over to the small window to set down the plant.   
A glimpse of his reflection in the glass showed the same spiral of the leaves still faintly pinwheeling in his eyes. 

  
\---

“Mels, what was _that_ for?” Jack asked, his faint annoyance coming through as his sister continued to pull him down the hall, far out of sight from the apartments.  
“Just- stay away from that thing, ok?”  
“Thing?”  
“Person. Whatever.”   
“Hey, stop,” He said, more firmly. She reluctantly did, shoving her clenched hands into her pockets and refusing to look at him.   
“Is this about the weird stuff? Why your show stopped?”   
“You don't believe in ghosts anyways,” she said, a bit snappish, scuffing the toe of her boot on the carpet.   
“Well, you didn't use to either,” he retorted, then sighed. “I know you've said your new job is… rough, but there's no need to push it out onto others. Michael seems nice.”  
“Seems being the important word.”  
“Why don't you trust him?”  
“Because,” she said, finally looking up, “I've seen it-him before, and it didn't go well. Look, can you just drop it?”  
“Fine,” He relented. “But you're driving.”   
Later that afternoon, when Jack returned from the small cafe that Melanie and him used as a bi-weekly check-in spot, he was careful to look and listen for Michael when he walked back to his flat. Unfortunately, he seemed to be out, or else incredibly quiet. With a sigh, he unlocked the door to his own flat, and kicking off his shoes, went straight over to his desk and opened his laptop, clicking on Google.   
_michael shelly_  
After a second's hesitation and a sigh, he added one more word to his search before he pressed enter.  
 _michael shelly ghost?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, hurriedly googling: spiral plant   
> google: did you mean the spiral aloe? :)   
> me: well I do now
> 
> Thanks for all the comments and feedback!!!! I'm hoping going further on to keep some ongoing plot threads while still having that good good 'michael learns how to exist again' and some forming friendships! Let me know if you want some more appearances by side characters (I'll get there eventually, but if you have any requests, I'm open and willing!) or ideas on more twists to throw in! Next chapters gonna have a little more Jack POV (let me know about your thoughts on that too, btw, and if you want even more clips of other characters POV, especially Jon and Martin) but then it's back to our (ir)regular programming!   
> Your guy's comments are like little nuggets of joy through my day, thanks for all your surrport!! <3 <3 <3


	6. Chapter 6 (the one where i didn't really know when to stop)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cute neighbor reluctantly admits something Weird might be happening, we meet Another queer podcast gal, get in losers we're going shopping, fluff goes to intrigue, we end on a dramatic note (whoops)

Jack thought that it would be a clear dead end when he looked through the results.   
His guess couldn't have been more wrong.   
It didn't take him very long to find an image that matched the Michael he knew now- it was linked to a post on Facebook, the description reading “celebrating new year’s with my co-workers because Elias is being a dick and making us work overtime! worth it tho cause Maria smuggled us in some champagne!!”. It was a dark tinted photo, clearly taken with little warning, as several of the half dozen or so figures were blurred. A red haired woman hoisted up a bottle of champagne, sitting on a desk, and many of the others around the small work area were clearly laughing, the paperwork beside them forgotten. Michael was hidden, way in the back, a shy smile on his face, hair tied back, wearing a pale blue dress shirt that had come untucked and clutching a stack of cassette tapes. The photo was dated 12 years ago, and yet the nervous looking blond looked almost identical.   
Further searching unearthed a missing persons report, about 2 years after the photo. They were looking for Michael Shelly, 24, found missing by his landlord. No follow up had been made, not after the report was made, and not in the years following. There was no evidence of a break-in or any kind of trouble, he’d simply vanished.   
Jack stared at the screen, still doubting it all despite the clear proof, then sighed and picked up his phone.   
He had some investigating to do. Damn, he was going to regret it if Melanie was actually right about all this paranormal stuff. She’d be insufferably smug about it.

\---

“Hey, Michael. Do you mind if Jon invites a friend to come with us when we go shopping?”   
Michael looked up from the book he was reading, a translation of Beowulf, and paused.   
“...is she nice?” Does she know about whatever people seem to know me from?   
“I mean, she’s friends with Jon, so she's pretty open minded.”  
“...ok.”  
“It’ll be good for you to meet new people,” Martin said happily, setting down his phone to take his empty mug to the sink. “And Georgie seems like a really cool person. I mean, she’s one of Jon’s oldest friends, and if she can get through his prickly exterior, well…”  
“When are we going, again?” Michael asked, setting down the book.   
“Jon and Georgie are coming over, so, in a few minutes or so?”  
Michael nodded, sitting up and stretching, trying to roll out his sore arms. As he did so, he felt them shift and he knew they were just slightly too long. Biting his lip, he focused, frowning with the effort of concentration. Slowly, they shifted back, popping into their proper sockets. He couldn’t help but sigh in relief.   
“Oh, I meant to ask. Where’d the plant come from?” Martin asked, walking over to take Michael’s long abandoned cup of tea.  
“Jack,” Michael said. “The neighbour.”   
“Huh,” Martin said, pausing to look at the succulent as he passed by. “Pretty pattern.”   
He nodded in agreement, standing and slipping on his converses before hastily running his hands through his hair to tie it back with the same orange ponytailer Martin had first given him. It was then that there was a knock at the door, and Martin opened it to reveal Jon, still perpetually exhausted and messy looking wearing yet another sweater. Standing next to him, looking curiously at the inside of the flat, was a woman. She was tall, dark skinned with her hair in neat cornrows, some of which were dyed a bright pink, wearing a purple crop top that said “I boo what I haunt” with a cartoon ghost with its middle finger up on it. She gave a small, friendly smile as she caught sight of Martin.  
“Sorry this was so last minute,” she apologised. “Thanks for having me along, though. It's been a while since I got to go shopping with people.”   
Her eyes finally caught on Michael, who’d instinctually hid near the corners as far out of sight as possible, and they alighted in curiosity.   
“So, you're Michael! Nice to meet you. Sorry if I barged in on this trip. I'm Georgie, by the way, I don't know if Jon or Martin told you. You're the special someone this trip is for, huh?”   
Michael nodded, quiet.   
“Sweet. Must be lucky, having such good friends.”   
He blinked. Friends?   
“We’re your friends as well, Georgie,” Jon said, rolling his eyes. Martin grabbed his jacket from the door, turning back to Michael. “You ready?” He asked.   
Michael nodded. He supposed they were his friends. Odd, only having known them a few days, yet he felt like he could trust him, that they would help him if he asked. He carefully made sure the sleeves of his sweater covered the faint twisting patterns on his wrists before he walked over to the door.  
“Yea,” He said shyly.  
…  
Martin’s small red car, nearing its maximum capacity with the four occupants, drove to a quieter suburb of London for the trip.  
“London’s overwhelming at the best of times,” Martin had said as they’d all buckled in. He sat in the driver's seat, with Jon next to him, and Michael and Georgie in the back. Michael wasn't sure if he minded being this close to someone he didn't know. He wasn't panicking, which was a relief, but something about Georgie was just… different. It wasn't a bad different, but this subtle overtone, like she was washed in faint greys. Martin and Jon had similar presences, though Martin’s soft blue shading was often mellowed by his cheerful demeanour and Jon’s purple tinges clung to him like soft shadows. He hadn't noticed any on Jack, though, so he wondered if it was just his mind playing tricks on him.   
It was as he burrowed deeper into these meandering thoughts that wove like hallways that he began to feel almost weightless. But the second he started to think about it, Jon’s voice snapped him out of a reverie.   
“Michael. You alright?”  
He looked up to see Jon looking back at him, a bit hesitant, as if he was testing a theory. Martin seemed slightly confused as well, though as Jon spoke and Michael moved, he seemed to relax.   
“Huh. Thought we’d looped back for a second. Must have been confused.”   
“This silence is weird,” Georgie said honestly. “Could we turn on some music?”  
Martin shrugged, and Jon messed with a few of the buttons and dials on the dash. Soon enough, music began softly playing from the speakers. It wasn't anything Michael recognized, but his fingers tapped along to the beat of the drums anyways.   
“So, um, what’s with the shirt?” He asked Georgie, curious but a bit hesitant.   
“Oh!” She looked down, as if she’d forgotten about it. “I do a podcast, “What the Ghost?”. You heard of it?”   
“Michael’s been… lets just say out of the loop, so no,” Martin said.   
“...Georgie knows about the Fears,” Jon said quietly to Martin. He blinked.   
“Oh! In that case, he was an unwilling avatar for the Spiral for the past decade.”  
“...huh. Fashion’s gotten a lot better since then. Though a lot of the stuff from the 90’s is coming back,” she said, pursing her lips thoughtfully. “Just clothing, thank god.”  
Michael watched, unwilling to admit he was getting lost, when they finally pulled into a large parking lot of appeared to be a small mall. It was less busy than it normally would have been, being a Wednesday morning, but Michael still stuck close to the others as they all piled out.   
“Where to first, Michael?” Georgie asked as they started to head for the front doors. “Please tell me you wear some colors. Please. With Jon it’s buying endless slightly different beige pants, boring button ups and dull sweaters.”   
Jon scowled, but didn’t say anything. Georgie grinned at him.   
“Come on, you know I’m right,” she said.   
“I… I don’t know,” Michael admitted, biting his lip. “I used to wear boring stuff- the Institute didn’t like its employees wearing informal clothes. And I never really wanted to stand out. But… I don’t know. I like warm colors, and patterns, I guess.”  
“Really? I would have guessed blues and greens, but… maybe it’s just that vibe around you.” She shrugged. The doors smoothly opened as the group neared them, and Michael had a moment of confusion and panic before he realized what they were. Georgie looked at him.  
“You good?” She asked.   
“..y-yea, actually,” he replied. There was something relieving about the fact that he could see through the doors, and that he didn't even have to touch the door handle, took the fear that always grew whenever he had to open a door out of him. Jon had strode ahead, and briskly returned with a shopping cart.   
“So, Michael,” Georgie said, smiling. “Where do you want to start?”  
…  
By the time they left the mall, Michael felt the most giddy he had in ages.   
The bags they loaded into the small trunk were full of clothes, all the possible combinations and kinds he could ever need. Georgie had talked him into brighter colors and more dramatic patterns than he ever would have dared to think about wearing before, Martin made sure he had plenty of comfortable sweaters and hoodies and Jon made sure he didn't forget the practical essentials such as undergarments, socks and jeans. There had been other purchases as well, including a package of scrunchies, barrettes, and even some jewellery that Georgie had coaxed him into buying, as well as a purple cat stuffed animal that, surprisingly, Jon had found.   
Georgie had insisted on paying for everything, despite the embarrassment of Jon, Martin, and Michael, as well as deciding that she would drive everyone home. Martin, who at this point was too worn out to argue, had conceded easily, and when Georgie told Michael, still clutching the purple cat, to get in the passengers side he did. This left Jon in the backseat with Martin, which he did with only the slightest of grumbling and only the slightest bit flustered. The lull of the car couldn't even be overwhelmed by the music Georgie had turned on, and soon the group fell into contented silence.   
Michael glanced back after a few minutes on the road, only to find that Martin had dozed off, head resting on Jon’s shoulder. Jon had developed a nervous tenseness, as if afraid that any small movement would wake him, but there was also a hesitant tenderness in his face as he looked down at Martin’s crooked glasses. Michael turned back quietly, just in time to see Georgie check in on the two using the rear view mirror, a small smile on her face. A few minutes later, both were slumbering in the backseat, and it was just a quiet car, Michael, and Georgie.  
“They’re cute, aren't they?” She said, quiet so she didn't wake them. Michael nodded.  
“Are they dating?” He asked. It had been a question that was itching at him for ages, but there had been nobody to ask.   
“Not yet,” she said. “Though I think they will, eventually. If one of them can get their act together and confess.”  
Michael nodded, fidgeting with his necklace, pulling the cord through over and over. It was silent for another minute or so before Michael broke the silence.   
“-no one will tell me what happened to me when I was gone. I know that they knew me, or something that looked like me, but no one will tell me how, or what I did,” he blurted out, slightly frustrated. Georgie glanced over at him.  
“What do you know about the Fears?” She asked. He paused.   
“...G- …my boss used to talk about them. It was how she sorted statements, only I think there was more to it than that. Sometimes she would take people on trips, out of the blue. They usually didn't come back, or they came back different. I went- she took me on a trip.”   
Her name still stumbled on his lips, as if saying it could bring her back, as if it would make what she did real. He felt the cold winds of Sannikov land on his face, the chill creeping into his bones. He squeezed the stuffed animal in his lap tightly, hugging it to his chest.  
Georgie nodded, reaching over to tweak the heat on the dash.   
“You know anything about the Spiral?”  
“It Is Not What It Is.”   
Georgie paused, slowing the vehicle they stopped at a red light, and turned more fully to look at Michael. Her eyes seemed to flicker in different directions, confused and just slightly wary.   
“-wh-What?” She asked.  
“Is Is Not What It Is? Es Mentiras?” He said again. He wasn't quite sure how he knew these names were right, or where he had heard them, but it clicked in his mind somehow. Georgie blinked a few times, as if trying to clear her vision.   
“I- sorry, there's- it's-” she said, each attempt to speak shuttering to a halt. She closed her eyes and shook her head, then turned to the back seat.   
“Jon,” she said, loud enough to wake him up. Blearily, he opened his eyes, stifling a yawn. Martin murmured a little as he moved, but as Jon quickly stilled, he remained asleep.   
“What is it? Oh. Did I fall asleep?” He asked, quickly messed with his glasses.  
“Mi-” Georgie began, turning back to look at Michael, but when she did, she stopped, a confused frown on her face.   
“I thought… I swore I saw- nevermind. Sorry to wake you up.”   
She turned back to the road, and when Michael looked at Jon curiously, he shrugged the slightest bit. The last way to London was the same sleepy quiet, until Martin woke up and Georgie dared to turn the music up slightly louder.   
She pulled into the parking garage of the apartment smoothly, hunting for a Martin’s assigned spot before parking.  
“Hey, Martin, can Michael and you take the bags up? Jon can drive me home and then bring the car back.”  
“Sounds good to me,” Martin said, tucking his hair behind his ear and grabbing a few bags from the trunk before handing them over to Michael. Once all the bags had been unloaded, they left, choosing to head for the elevator instead of the stairwell. As they walked out of sight, Michael couldn't help but glance back curiously, wishing he could be watching Georgie and Jon as they slipped back into Martin’s car. But as they pulled away, he turned back to the path ahead, letting himself rest content in the events of the day and not thinking too hard about why Georgie had been lying earlier. 

…

Georgie waited until she could see both Michael and Martin disappear before she turned to Jon.  
“What is it?” He asked, realizing that there was a sense of unease on her face.   
“This might get weird,” she said. “But we need to talk.”  
“...about what?” He said, brows furrowing. She sighed, running a hand through her hair.  
“We need to talk about Michael.”  
“Why? Is something wrong?”   
“I don't think the Spiral has let him go.”  
“Well, I mean, certain things are to be expected-” He said, but Georgie didn't let him finish before she spoke, firm and serious.   
“Jon, he asked about what happened when he was gone, and I asked if he knew anything about the Spiral. The second I said that, he got all weird, he-he- I don't know how to describe it. Blurred? Bled? Shifted? He wasn't- it wasn't Michael. It looked like him, almost, but things about it were wrong, the eyes this swirling blue green, the pupils and whites completely swallowed by that whirlpool of color. It’s arms were too long, the hands too big, the mouth too wide and the teeth too sharp. And it was bright, like a photo with the saturation at its max. And it kept changing, moving, it ways that were almost human but not. And so I woke you up, I need to know I wasn't hallucinating or going crazy and- it stopped. The second you woke up it was all gone.”   
“...that sounds like the Spiral,” Jon admitted quietly. “But- when Michael was gone, he was lost in- well, Tim called it the Distortion, and that name’s stuck, now. And the Distortion, it looked like him. Sometimes. Other times, it was a twisted, awful version of that same body, stretched and warped. But he’s out now.”  
“Maybe you're right. Maybe it's just that being in… whatever he was trapped in rubbed off. Or maybe you need to keep a close watch on him.”  
“...I can do that. But I promise, he’s not a monster,” Jon said, staring into Georgie’s eyes. She sighed.  
“I really hope so. I really want someone to have a happy ending. Just… let me know if something like that happens again, ok?”  
“Ok.”   
She started the car, and pulled it out of the dark parking garage and into the streets in silence, both sinking into thoughts that were as deep, dark, and vast as the ocean. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that ended so dramatically lmao. I promise things will be more lighthearted next time! I have no clue how well I wrote Georgie, so apologies if it's super ooc. Also, I've decided that's Michael is in joint custody of The Spiral and The Watcher and so kinda has aspects/abilities of both (more so the Spiral, clearly, but I made multiple hints as to Michael's watcher abilities and urges! See if you can find them all, lol, I've been doing it since chapter 2). The Jonmartin is slow burn, but that seems pretty I need character (though I'm going to try and have more of it!). I know this chapter got super long, so the pacing might be off. If anyone ever draws Georgie in the shirt I oh so brilliantly made (aka the stupid ghost puns one) I would Die of Happiness.   
> Thanks for all the comments, kudos, and support! I honestly wouldn't have gotten this far without all the sweet comments! Literally no comment I said too long and rambly for me, you can type incomprehensible keyboard smashes and it would still warm my heart. If you've got any questions, feedback, advice, or you just want to point out something you liked, feel free to comment on this fic or message me @redribbonmagpie on instagram and @hoidingaroundthecosmere on tumblr. Thanks so much!!!!!!!! <3 <3 <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened at the Sainsbury’s, conversations, smiles, and recordings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw’s for: typical Flesh related grossness, mutilation of human remains, implied murder 
> 
> hmu if you want a summary of that part or a less gross version!

Jack could never forget what happened at the deli. 

He had worked at a Sainsbury’s near his flat at the time, during his second year of his art degree. He was broke, as college students often are, so he'd decided to take late shifts at the grocery store nearby. He worked the deli, which he was fine with- meat didn't usually gross him out, if he didn't think about the slaughtering of the animal too much, and he didn't mind doing some slightly gross hands-on work. He worked the last shift of the day, 5-7. Most of his job was moving things around in the massive coolers in the back, restocking the fridges, or cleaning up. However, since it was the latest shift, he was part of the closing up crew. There weren't many of them- the manager, Justine, and the janitor, a grouchy middle aged man with wispy white hair, and Dorian. 

Dorian worked in the deli as well, doing the customer service and management side of the shift. He was a charming young man, a few years older than Jack at the time, with a shock of blond hair and warm brown eyes. He always mentioned “school”, though he never mentioned what specifically he was studying, or where. He was easy to get along with, though, making lighthearted jokes about the badly stocked shelves or the late shipment. Dorian did, however, have a slightly morbid sense of humour that always seemed to come out just slightly wrong. He joked about shoving Justine’s arm in the meat grinder more than once, a comment that made Jack squirm with discomfort. He claimed that his father was a butcher, and that's why he was so comfortable around meat. Jack never really questioned it. Not until the janitor didn't come into work for the week. 

When he’d arrived at work, Dorian had been cling-wrapping thick slabs of raw meat in the back. Jack had asked where the janitor had gone, and Dorian has chuckled, saying “someone probably got rid of him for being so nosy”. Jack had dismissed it as bad timing, and grabbed some gloves before helping Dorian finish up. But the janitor didn't come in the next day, or the next. Jack never saw the meat he’d helped wrap up in the back rooms or the freezers again. He had just about dismissed it as a weird coincidence when Justine didn't come in. 

He was cautious as he walked into the back rooms that time. What he saw still haunted him- Dorian, humming cheerfully, carefully trimming the skin, fat and bones off of a bloody, butchered but still horrifyingly human corpse. He’d looked up, beaming, as Jack walked in. 

“Good,” he’d said brightly. “Can you grab a knife and give me a hand?” 

He'd run. That was what any sensible person would have done, he told himself later. He'd called the police, of course. But when they'd arrived, the scene had been empty, except for a new shipment of meat. No corpse, no Dorian. It had been ruled off as a hysterical breakdown. He quit. 

But Jack knew. He'd seen this horrible gleam in Dorian’s eyes, this… gleeful gluttony, as if he was indulging. Maybe Dorian was just a crazy person, and he’d fled before the police arrived. But the whole thing had never sat right with him. 

He was starting to feel the same way about Michael Shelly. 

Jack sighed, looking at the mess of post-it notes and print out amassed all over his desk, spilling onto the walls. He’d found himself in a rabbit hole, scouring the internet for any mentions of this elusive ghost. Michael had no social media accounts, or hadn't posted anything about himself on them at any rate. Jack had found out that he’d worked at the infamous Magnus Institute- the disappearance had been mentioned on multiple Institute based forums. Whenever he was found in any photo or mentioned in any post, it was always as part of a group, or in passing. It was like trying to chase something that didn't exist.

He still hadn't told Melanie, even though she knew something about Michael that he didn't. He was too stubborn to admit that he might be considering all her paranormal mumbo jumbo might have a point. And Mels didn't like talking about stuff that made her upset, and this was clearly one of them. 

The point was, the whole situation was driving him just slightly crazy. It couldn't be possible. It wasn't possible. But he couldn't be seeing things, because other people could see him too. He’d given him a plant, that he’d held, so he wasn't discorporeal. But he'd also been reported missing a decade ago, he still looked the exact same, and there was nothing new online about him. 

There was a quiet knock at his door. Closing his laptop and running his hand through his hair halfheartedly, he stood up and answered it.

He froze. Outside, dressed in a white shirt and rather flamboyant floral pants, smiling shyly and flapping his hands a little, was Michael.

“Oh! Uh. Did you need something?” Jack said, a bit numbly. 

“Um, we’re out of batteries, so Martin was wondering if you had a few spare that we could borrow,” Michael said, not making eye contact. 

“Sure. Uh, come on in.” 

As he walked back into his apartment, Michael hesitantly followed, glancing curiously over at the overflowing desk.

“Are you doing research?” He asked, stepping a little closer, peering at some of the papers. Jack felt his heart speed up. 

“Sorta. The batteries are over here,” he said, trying desperately to subtly coax him away from the work area. Michael either didn't seem to get the hint or simply ignored it, getting closer, mouth moving silently as he read. Jack hurried over, trying to gather the loose papers into a pile and whisk them out of sight, but the damage had already been done. He looked up.

“Do you really think I'm a ghost?” 

Jack froze, limbs growing heavy and numb.

“...I don't know what to think,” he said, mouth dry, somehow feeling like he should be honest. “It doesn't make sense.” 

Michael sighed, more weary and resigned than anything. “You wouldn't believe me.”

“Anything is better than- than nothing.” 

“That's not true. You'll think I'm crazy.” 

“Michael, this is impossible.  _ You're  _ impossible. I won't think you're crazy- this. This is what's crazy.” He gestured at the papers, desperation growing.

“...I was lost inside It Is Not What It Is.”

“What?”

“These- these endless halls. These impossible halls. And this Thing, this Thing that shouldn't be able to exist but it does. It- it ate me. And I was stuck for ten years.”

Jack just stared at him. The things he was saying- it wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.

Then again, what he saw Dorian doing wasn’t possible either. Bodies disappearing couldn’t happen either. But the part of his brain that held on kicking and screaming to logic, to rationalization, stubbornly refused to let go. Still, there was this aching hurt in Michael’s green eyes, this raw wound that had clearly been open and bleeding for a very long time.

“...ok.” 

Michael blinked. “What?”

Jack shrugged, more calm than he felt, the sort of relaxed daze that hit him when his brain couldn't really process things anymore. “I believe you.” 

Relief dawned on Michael’s face, as dazzling and beautiful as the sunrise. Jack felt so small, blinded by the grin that unfolded on his face. But it was a good small, a quiet, awe-filled, adoring small. He didn’t think he’d seen a smile that powerful before. 

“Do you, uh… want to, I don’t know, talk about it?” He asked awkwardly, all of a sudden too much aware of how close he was to Michael. 

“From the beginning?” He asked, tilting his head a little.

“Yea.”

“Alright,” Michael said, a bit shyly, the ghost of the smile still on his face. Jack paused, and cleared his throat awkwardly.

“You don’t mind if I, uh, record this, do you? Just so I can go back to it later.” 

Michael laughed. Actually laughed. It was a slightly eerie sound, quiet but genuine, filled with mirth.

“My old boss always had a tape recorder on her,” he said. “I’m used to it by now.”

Taking that as a yes, Jack picked up his phone off the table and opened the audio recording app, swiping away the recordings of his befuddled musings and opening a new one before pressing record. 

“Begin when you’re ready,” he said distractedly, tugging over a stool as Michael sat down in the desk chair. 

“It all started when I was young…” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a bit shorter and quite a bit later than other chapters but I really wanted to make sure I hit the points this chapter!! this was a pretty big one plot wise for more than one reason, since we had a big jack/michael confrontation (as well as hints of crushessss (and even some potential Fear related nonsense! :0)), so feedback is rlly rlly appreciated!!   
> also someone pointed out that Michael would use bsl shdksj thx I’ll make sure to remember that for further chapters.   
> The comments and kudos on this thing are so fricken motivating you guys give me lil nuggets of happiness throughout my day!! I know I wouldn’t have gotten this far without all the support and positive feedback I’ve gotten, you guys make this fic possible <3 <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin and Michael talk Fears and Jon, movie night, domesticity at its finest, Thai food, hoodies, cuddles and sleepovers.

“I told Jack about what happened to me.” 

  
Martin blinked, looking up from where he'd idly been stirring his lukewarm cup of tea at the kitchen table.   
“What?” He said, a bit stunned. 

  
Michael was sitting on the pull-out bed, hugging the stuffed cat he’d decided to call Gerry and staring into the open air of the living room, though his eyes flickered over momentarily as Martin responded,   
“I told him about the door,” he said simply. “He asked. Thought I was a ghost.”

  
A small smile crossed his face at the last bit, and he turned to fully face Martin.   
“...oh. Was it… nice?”  
The words fell out clumsily, and he berated himself internally, but Michael didn’t seem to mind. 

  
“It felt good to let it out into the open, instead of it eating away in my chest. It was kinda like- like when she took my statement, the first time I went to the Archives,” he said, folding in a little as he danced around the topic of his old boss.   
“Jon took my statement once,” Martin found himself admitting. “Even though the experience itself was awful, telling him… it was nice.”  
Nice was an understatement. He had been relieved to spill his guts, even if it was just that one thing. The terror and boredom and gnawing anxiety during the week he’d been trapped had made his insides feel like a churning slushie. But talking to Jon… the soft worry that wore down his frown lines, the way his scrunched brows slowly uncrumpled, the way he put his hand on Martin’s when he’d started trembling… Nice was an understatement. Martin ached for that sort of interaction again. 

  
“Does Jon do it the- the Archivist way?” Michael asked, shifting so he could tuck his feet underneath him. Martin paused.  
“The…”  
“When words gush like water even when you try not to but it still feels good, like a release of pressure.”  
“-I guess that’s a good way to describe it.” 

  
“Yea. But it was nice,” Michael said. “Made me feel grounded.”   
“It's part of his whole Avatar thing,” Martin said with a nod. “One of his- oh, powers sounds so silly, but I guess that's what it is. Abilities, maybe?” “Avatar?” He tried out the word. “What does that mean?”   
Martin paused.   
There had never been a good time to tell Michael what the Distortion had done to him. At first he was too easily upset, and the world was stressful enough without the added weight of what that thing had done. Then… it was easier to let Michael be happy and confused than to know and breakdown again. Somehow, they'd come to the conclusion that ignorance, in this case, was bliss. Martin knew it wouldn't last forever, it couldn't. But every time he tried to talk about it, his throat grew dry and his words died on his tongue and, like he had done so many times in his life, he shut his mouth and kept it closed. 

  
“...a person that’s a sort of… I guess, like, a chosen one by one of the Fears,” He said carefully, watching Michael’s expressions closely. He seemed to toy with it in his mind, forehead scrunching as he thought.   
“Georgie was talking about the Fears,” He said. “I know- I know that she talked about them, too. Is one of them It Is Not What It Is?”

  
Martin stiffened, and Michael clearly noticed, his head cocked slightly as it often was when he was curious or confused about something.   
“What is it?” He asked, and Martin couldn't help but be reminded of the Thing that had worn his skin for so many years, that had stolen his voice and his laugh. Maybe it was just the light, but the stripes on his shirt seemed to shimmer like the horizon in the heat. 

  
“I- that's an interesting name for it,” he said, a bit hoarsely. “We call it the Spiral, usually.”  
Michael nodded, eyes wide and attentive. The bright blue of his irises made the expression almost shocking- but Martin could have sworn Michael didn't have blue eyes. It must be his memory playing tricks on him.   
“Who’s the Avatar for the Spiral?” He asked innocently. Martin could feel a little tug, and part of him wanted to tell him everything, from the beginning, but the pull wasn't as strong as Jon’s was, and he was able to shove the urge down. 

  
“We don't really know,” he lied, and the words felt sour in his throat. “Uh, Jon’s coming over. We’re going to watch a movie, because both of you are really behind on current media. I mean, I'm not the most caught up, but I at least have some experience. I think Jon might have lived under a dark rock for most of his adult life.” He couldn't help but smile as he said it, remembering Jon’s expression when he’d first suggested the idea. 

  
“What movie?” Michael asked, but though the curiosity remained, the tug for the truth didn't.   
“Um, Inception. It's a bit complicated, but, uh, I needed something that could keep Jon engaged for more than fifteen minutes, and I know he hates unsolved mysteries, so I think I can keep him mostly still for the whole movie. Besides, it's actually really good.”  
“What's for dinner, then?”  
“Jon's bringing take-out, despite my better judgement.” 

  
Michael beamed. He didn't seem to mind Martin’s rather haphazard cooking, but he always enjoyed whatever greasy takeout Jon brought when he was in charge of dinner. Without realizing it, Jon had begun to spend most of his time out of work at Martin’s flat. Michael didn't like being alone, and the two could spend hours in the same room doing completely unrelated things and seemingly be pleased with it. As for Martin, he certainly wasn't going to argue about seeing Jon more, even though he nearly had a heart attack when he had grabbed one of Martin’s books of old poetry on a whim and nearly read it before he could intervene. And the more time Jon spent over, the more domestic the three seemed to become, falling into unspoken routines without thinking. Once Martin even came back to see Jon in just boxers, which had been like a gut punch (although not an unpleasant gut punch). 

  
“Can we make popcorn?” Michael turned his puppy-dog eyes onto Martin, who'd always been a successful target.   
“Alright, but you're standing up and getting some dishes out,” he said, going over the cupboards.   
The two had already gotten out all the dishes needed in preparation when Jon arrived, not even bothering not knock as he used the ‘borrowed’ spare key to Martin’s flat to let himself in. Michael cheered quietly when he saw the pattern on the bag that marked it as Thai. 

  
“Really, Jon,” Martin said. “Can't you come over early once and try and cook?”  
“I really don't think you want to eat my cooking,” Jon said, unloading the bags onto the cleared counter. Michael started unpacking them as soon as they were set down, and Jon went back over to the door to kick off his shoes and hang up his coat and scarf. 

  
“We’re watching a movie, and I'm pinning you down for the whole thing. Bathroom breaks mean the movie is paused until all are present,” Martin said firmly. Jon grumbled a little, but it was more instinct than anything.  
“Did you pick something interesting?”  
“Martin said it was good,” Michael put in, a small cloud of steam floating around as he opened the first of the containers, scooping out a clump of noodles into a bowl.   
“You should trust him.” 

  
“I do,” Jon said defensively. “Just… I'm not a big movie person.”   
“It’ll be fun,” Martin said, sending a small smile Jon’s direction. “I'll get it ready, if you two have got the food?”

  
When they both nodded, he went over to the TV, which was in front of the foldout couch, and began trying to work out how to turn on the DVR. A minute or so later, a yelp came from the kitchen.

  
Startled, Martin looked over to see a dropped container of dipping sauce, most of which had been splashed on Jon, who looked remarkably calm as he stood there, staring at the dripping mess of his shirt. Michael, on the other hand, looked frozen, just about ready to bolt. 

  
“Oh my god,” Martin said, quickly abandoning the TV and hurrying back into the kitchen.   
“I'm so sorry,” Michael whimpered, hands flapping a little anxiously.  
“No, it's alright, I wasn't looking where I was going. I'm not mad, but, uh. I may need to borrow one of Martin’s shirts for the evening,” he said. “Here, let's find a towel.”

  
Martin hurried back into his own cluttered room and fumbled quickly through his closet, looking for something that would almost fit Jon, though the height and frame difference meant that it would be a long shot away from tailored. Eventually, he found an old hoodie with the worn logo for his college on in that seemed to be the best choice, which he nervously brought back out to the main area. 

  
Jon seemed to have soothed Michael, and the two had almost completely cleaned up the mess on the floor with paper towels. Jon straightened up when he saw what Martin held.   
“It probably won't fit,” he apologized, cheeks burning. “But, uh, I guess it's better than a wet, sauce soaked shirt.”   
Jon cleared his throat, a bit awkward as well. “..thanks. Where should I, uh…?”  
“Oh! The bedroom’s fine, I guess. Oh. Or the bathroom. Yea. Either, really,” he said, face growing redder with embarrassment. Brilliant, suggesting changing in the bedroom. Another stroke of genius by Martin Blackwood. 

  
Jon took the hoodie and went into the bathroom, adjusting his glasses as he went. Martin busied himself by going over to Michael and using a wet hand towel to wipe up the rest of the spill. Michael seemed to be watching his blush with a curious frown.

  
“Why're you embarrassed?” He asked.  
“...sharing clothes is-it's- agh. It's a thing. Like, a relationship thing,” he said, sputtering a little.   
“...how is this different than you having hair ties on hand for him?”   
“It- that's a thing friends do. Friends. We’re friends.”  
“..but don't you?” He asked, scrunching up his face in confusion. Martin, if it was possible, got even redder.

  
“I- it doesn't ma- matter. It's- its, uh, no- not important,” he said, quickly disposing of the dirty paper towels. He was heading back to the TV when Jon emerged again, a little sheepish but no worse for wear. His hair was slightly rumpled by pulling it on over his head, and the hoodie was still incredibly oversized, but both effects were undeniably adorable. Jon tugged the ends of the sleeves up so his hands could stick out.   
“...thanks. It's actually pretty cozy,” he mumbled. P  
“It's no problem,” Martin said, voice cracking a little. He went back to turning on the TV and taking out the rented DVD as Jon rejoined Michael in preparing the food, much more carefully.   
Soon, the plates were loaded up and carried over, the little wooden trays that Martin had gotten from a friend for “breakfast in bed” finally put to good use. As the movie started, all three wriggled into their own section of the pull out, eating quietly and watching the movie attentively. When the meal was done, the popcorn was pulled out and microwaved while the dishes and leftovers were taken care of, and everyone piled back on the couch, much closer this time in order to share the single bowl of popcorn, Jon squished in the middle. Eventually, the sitting melted into lounging, and the lounging into straight up cuddling, the blanket pulled over their laps rumpled by the twisting mass of limbs that had developed as everyone shifted and settled into the most comfortable position they could find.   
Michael drifted off the first, head resting on a pillow on Jon’s lap, the movie still playing. Martin was the second, nodding off closer to the end when the music began to slow and swell, small yawns turning into tiny snores as he curled up against Jon’s side. Jon lasted until the movie was done and the screen flickered off, leaving the room dark, and unwilling to stir the others, he leaned back, thinking he'd just rest for a few minutes before he woke them up.   
All slept soundly until morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter started off a bit serious so I decided to keep it nice and soft at the end. Also, Inception is a great movie and I needed some excuse for them all to cuddle. Sorry for the block of text at the end, I tried to format I think the same as last time but I don't think Ao3 wanted me to, it literally wouldn't let me. Hopefully it's will next time! Thanks for the patience as I write, I really appreciate it! Seeing the comments in different chapters by people who read it all at once is so pure, like, I adore it so much you guys. All in all, here's some fluff for the fluffy comments!   
> Thanks for reading! :3


	9. Chapter 9: For real this time tho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Jack talk about Fear. Things get serious and dialogue heavy.

Jack snapped back to reality when a sharp knock came from his door.   
He’s been daydreaming again, without really realizing it. His tablet had gone dark many minutes earlier, his stylus abandoned on the desk. His eyes hurt a bit from staring out the bright window from inside his dark apartment.  
He stood up, legs tingling a bit as if protesting the movement, and walked over to the door. Part of him hoped it was Michael again, with his sunny hair and shy smile.   
He had just about convinced himself that’s what was happening when he opened the door to find someone who was clearly not Michael waiting impatiently.   
It was the man who’d rushed so quickly to Michael’s side the first time they’d met. He was a stern looking man, dark skinned with shaggy hair that had grey streaks that made him look older than he probably was. He had square glasses, and his arms were crossed over a worn hoodie that didn’t fit the rest of his appearance, and odd pockmark like scars dotted his neck, face, and hands. His eyebrows were raised slightly, which gave him a perpetual unimpressed aire. Jack actually took a step back, despite being the bigger man by far.   
“Oh. Um. Hi, I’m Jack. Did you need something?”  
“Can I come inside?” The man asked impatiently. Unsure how to politely refuse, Jack stepped aside and the man entered, gaze sweeping over the room with some combination of what he guessed was curiosity and disdain.   
“Jonathan Sims,” the man said briskly, walking around to get a better look at the inside of the flat. Jack noticed that he held an old fashioned tape recorder in his hand, whirling and clacking. It seemed impossible that it should still work.   
“-what?”  
“My name. I assumed you didn’t know,” Jon said dryly. “If Michael didn’t tell you.”  
“Oh!” Jack’s eyes widened. “You’re- are you the- Archivist? The new Archivist?”  
Jon raised an eyebrow.   
“So Michael did tell you. Or you already knew,” he said, focusing his gaze on Jack as he sat down on the stool stranded in the middle of the room. His gaze was intense, his dark eyes felt like they were boring through Jack’s skull and hollowing out his brains. He sat back down in his desk chair, a bit unnerved.   
“I, uh. Didn’t know, actually,” he said, feigning calm. “Not before Michael told me.”   
“Is that a lie?” Jon asked, his gaze still holding Jack in place. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words that came out were not what he had intended.   
“I’d heard that there was a new Archivist at the Magnus Institute, but I didn’t know your name until Michael told me.”   
“Hm.” Jon frowned at him, seemingly unaware or uncaring of the way Jack’s eyes widened in panic and he scooted back.   
“You- how did you do that?” He asked, pushing with the words. It was a little trick he’d learned, when he did journalism. Sometimes, he could get people to admit things they normally wouldn't have. It took energy, this weird squeezing inside his chest. Jack guessed it made him more trustworthy seeming.   
“It's an ability of mine,” Jon said, then snapped his mouth shut, his expression mirroring Jack’s. The tape recorder was crackly with static, so loud that Jack looked at it worriedly, as if it would break on the spot.   
“-you... That's not possible. I'm the Archivist.”   
“...I know?” Jack said, looking up and feeling like he was missing something incredibly important.   
“...you can't work for the Eye. That's what the Archives is for. That-” Jon was looking around a bit panickedly, repeatedly clenching and unclenching his hands.   
“Hey. Is something bothering you? Is it too bright? I can pull down the blinds,” Jack said hurriedly, recognizing the signs of distress, already rising out of his seat towards the window.   
“No. I'm fine.” Jon let out a breath and closed his eyes. Despite this, Jack still felt the nagging sensation he was being watched. The grating noises of the recorder died down.   
“Melanie didn't tell me about you.”   
“Mels?” Jack was surprised. He sank back down into his chair, the curiosity overwhelming his growing anxiety. “Do you work with her?”  
“Work with is a loose term,” Jon said dryly. “But yes. She didn't tell me that you- you'd been affected by the Fears.”   
“The Fears? Is- is whatever took Michael one of those?”   
Jon sighed, and rubbed his eyes. With the bags and the grey hair, he looked infinitely older than he was.   
“Sort of. Part of one, yes. Another- The Eye- is what I work for.”   
“Wait, you work for something called ‘The Eye’?” Jack narrowed his eyes. “That sort of cult nonsense would have been all over by now.”   
“It's not something that would get out,” Jon said, opening his eyes. The dark brown irses seemed even darker, almost black. Jack could see his own reflection in them. “Elias… watches even more than I do. He would cut off any rumor where it started.”   
“So, what does this… Eye thing do?” He asked, leaning in closer. The more Jon talked, the more hungry for the knowledge Jack became, until it wasn't a want anymore but a need.   
“Watches,” Jon said simply. “Knows. Uncovers. Keeps records.”  
“...so, like the Magnus Institute.”   
“Exactly what it was made for.”   
“...you said The Fears. There are more?”  
“14. I won't go through them all.”   
“And you said I'd been.. what, touched by one? What does that even mean?”  
Jon gave a grim smile. “You have a statement, don't you? I can always tell. Well, now more than one, seeing as you’ve heard Michael’s story. And met myself.”   
“...statement? What, like the nut jobs that give you guys their stories from bad trips?” Jack blurted out, incredulous. He couldn't help himself, it seemed so ridiculous. Fears? The Magnus Institute a center for real, actual paranormal activity? It was crazy. Jon scoffed.   
“Some. I think yours has… something to do with meat, yes?”  
Jack froze.  
“Stop-stop that.”   
“It's not really something I can control,” Jon said, leaning back. Suddenly the small, tired looking man seemed a lot more threatening. “But I'll refrain from doing it again. But I was right. I see it on your face.”   
“...it was… it was just a-a bad dream. Or Dorian was a nut job. It wasn't paranormal.”   
“Wasn't it? The Flesh is a rather nasty one, I’ll admit.” Jon scrunched his face up in disgust.   
“You're telling me that was real.”   
“Oh, yes.”   
“Like, seriously real?”   
“Melanie clearly hasn't told you about anything she’s seen,” Jon said, raising an eyebrow. “She took nearly as much convincing as you. Runs in the family, I suppose. Though you haven't stormed out, so that's an improvement.”   
“Mels is involved?” That was too much. Jack stood, taking full advantage of his height to tower over Jon. For his part, he actually looked mildly alarmed.  
“-Well, yes. She's an archival assistant, after all. So is Martin.”   
“Wait, Martin? The- the soft looking neighbor?” Jack stared at him. This was getting worse and worse the more he listened.   
“He’s actually quite good under pressure,” Jon said stiffly. Jack knew that he'd gotten into some private territory, and he quickly backed off before pressing another point.  
“Is everyone at the Institute involved?”   
“Oh, no. A half dozen of us, maybe. Including Elias. Anyone that works directly with the Archivist learns eventually.”   
Jack said down, burying his face in his hands, trying desperately to process it all.  
“This- this is crazy.”   
“A lot to unload at once,” Jon agreed. “But that's not why I came over here.”   
Jack groaned.   
“Next thing I know you'll say that there are monsters running around.”   
Jon paused.  
“Are you fucking kidding me?”   
“Never. And those are Avatars, not- whatever. My question was… have you noticed things off about Michael?”   
The sudden shift in conversation made Jack actually look up. Jon’s pocked hands, one of which had a pale burn on its palm, were curling in and out as he waited for a response.   
“...why?”   
“I'll explain later. Have you seen anything?”   
He paused for a minute, thinking back. Even in his memories, he couldn't quite picture Michael in his entirety- sometimes he seemed shorter, or slightly more tan, or his eyes shifted in the light. It was sort of nauseating, trying to pin all of the slightly different memories into a full understanding of a person.  
“He…” he took a breath. “I don't know, maybe my memory’s just failing on me, but I can't remember his eye colour. Whenever you look away and back, something feels a bit different. I might just be hallucinating, or it's a trick of the light, or-”   
“-it's the Spiral,” Jon said softly. “It-it's illusions, tricks. The impossible made tangible.”  
“Wait. So Michael is like- like, he works for the- Spiral, you said?”   
“...in a way,” Jon said, deflecting the question, clearly lost in a deep spiral of thoughts. He stood, eyes far away, and made his way back over to the door.  
“Just- don't open any yellow doors that suddenly appear,” he said distractedly, and he opened the door and shut it behind him before Jack could get a word in edgewise.   
He stared silently at the space where Jon had sat, time slipping away like sand as his thoughts built and grew and swallowed him whole. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes this is super late (not like i have an actual schedule but I like to post a bit more frequently than this) and v dialogue heavy and I didn't edit it at all so I don't know if it makes much sense. Anyways, thanks to everyone pointing out I accidently posted twice (sorry for the disappointment lol), sorry I didn't get to it until now! Anyways, things are getting intense and the climax (kinda?) of this arc of the story is the next chapter! Don't worry, though, that's not the end of the fic, just the first part of the learning about the fears and the distortion. As always, all the comments and kudos give me life. Thanks for reading and sticking with me so long :D
> 
> SNEAK PEAK (jokes) FOR NEXT CHAPTER:  
> Bring your Avatar to Work Day, when a window closes..., facing your Fears (a bit more literally than usual) and going full inception on your enemies.


	10. Chapter 10 - I'm real sorry y'all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast, smoochies???, bring your Avatar to work day, shouting and a Wild West showdown if written by Lovecraft (but way less problematic).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuses as to how late this is.  
> *throws confetti*

It was going to be Michael’s first time back at the Institute since his return.   
It had been Martin’s suggestion, actually. Jon himself didn’t think it was a great plan, letting an Avatar who wasn’t in control of his powers inside the (his) Archives, but Martin’s point of introducing familiar things from his past had been a good one, so he’d begrudgingly agreed.  
He’d gotten over to the flat early so he could eat breakfast and drive Martin, something that had become an odd little routine of theirs over the past month or so. Michael had made scrambled eggs (and not nearly set off the fire alarm) and was serving them up by the time Jon walked in. He smiled when he saw him.   
“Hey. Eggs.”   
Jon nodded, glancing over Michael’s outfit as he took off his jacket. He’d tied his hair up loosely, though as was typical, much of it had escaped its confines and hung frizzled around his face. He wore a worn t-shirt tied with a ponytailer around the hem to better fit him and some plain jeans. It was rather subdued compared to his usual clothes, and Jon raised an eyebrow questioningly.   
“Old habits,” Michael said with a small shrug. “I don't particularly want to catch people's attention, either.”   
“Why not?” Martin said, emerging from the bathroom. His hair was just slightly rumpled in an endearing way, and as he went past Jon to the kettle, Jon couldn't help but smooth it down. Martin flushed, bit his lip, then turned back to his mug of tea.   
“I don't know anyone,” Michael said.   
“That's not true. You know Melanie, and Martin and I.”   
“I don't think Melanie likes me much, though I'm not sure why,” Michael said thoughtfully, serving up the last of the eggs as Jon took a seat. Martin looked over at him worriedly.   
“It'll be fine,” Jon said, a bit brusquely, but Michael didn't seem to mind the tone, and seemed to reluctantly agree and sat down, tucking into his eggs with incredible speed. That was one thing that hadn't changed- he didn't snack. He ate as much as possible as quickly as possible and then didn't eat anything until the next big meal. Martin stirred the contents of his bowl, still frowning over at Jon, who was following Michael’s technique of speed eating, though he knew he'd probably regret it later.   
Soon Michael and Jon were done, and Martin gave up on finishing his bowl and took the dishes to the sink while Jon filled up three thermoses full of tea. Michael grabbed a jacket and his shoes, and when Jon walked over to hand him his thermos, he paused.   
“Isn't that my jacket?”   
“You left it here days ago. And it's comfy.”   
“...fits you better than it does me,” Jon said with a shrug, going over to the fretting Martin, who was searching frantically for his keys.  
“Here,” He said, grabbing his coat off the coat-tree and handing it over. “You left them in your pocket.”   
Martin sighed in relief, quickly tugging the coat on and fishing out the key ring.   
“Thanks,” He said, standing on his tip toes and planting a quick kiss on Jon’s cheek.   
It took a few seconds of stunned silence- in which Martin unlocked the apartment door and had hurried out- before Jon fully processed what had just happened.   
“Oh, are you doing that now?” Michael said curiously, pulling on a black beanie and watching Jon turn a bright red.   
“I- what-” He stammered, trying to regain his dignity as the blond breezed through the doorway.   
“Coming?” He called over his shoulder, glancing back with the hint of a smirk. Still flustered, Jon closed and locked the door behind him, and followed through the hallways.   
“...is that hat new?” He asked, as he finally caught up to Michael, who’s long legs easily outpaced his own.   
“Jack let me borrow it,” Michael said proudly. Jon narrowed his eyes a little, but didn't say anything.   
Eventually the two reached the parking lot, Martin already behind the wheel of his small red car. They slipped in the backseat, and Martin pulled onto the streets.   
It took ten minutes to reach the Institute. The whole time, Jon’s mind was racing.  
Martin had kissed him.  
It wasn't like he could deny the growing warmth he felt towards him- Martin had this way of making him feel a little more relaxed every time he was around, no matter if he was tired or upset or frustrated. He was patient, especially with Jon’s limited domestic abilities and nearly complete lack of technology experience, and he was kind, and sweet, and thoughtful, always bringing tea and snacks. He knew that Martin slipped in vitamin powder into his tea sometimes when he hadn't eaten, and brought him statements when he noticed that Jon was getting cranky. Even when he was sad, or confused, or angry, he was cute, and sweet. He always held his ground, thinking things through, or acting rashly but with good reason. He…   
Jon might actually be falling for Martin Blackwood.   
He ran a hand through his hair, determined to keep his cool until he could find the time to rationalize and process it all. Michael watched him, chewing distractedly on his necklace.   
And sooner than he’d have liked, they were parked in an employee spot. He was the last to get out of the car, still a bit numb with shock. Martin noticed, brow scrunching in concern.   
“You good?” He said softly, resting his hand on Jon’s arm. He felt his breath catch a little and forced himself to breathe.   
“-yea, I'm good.”   
He led the small group through the main doors, the receptionists gaze gliding off of them as Martin waved a little at her. They quickly entered the Archives, Michael relaxing after the door was open and the hallway beyond was clear in view.   
“This place hasn't changed at all,” he murmured as they walked through, footsteps echoing through the empty halls.   
“We thought we’d have you go through some statements, see if any catch your eye,” Martin said. “Is that alright?”   
“I can translate, too, and look for references. That's what I did for Ger- … That's what I used to do.”   
“What languages?” Jon asked, looking up curiously.   
“Spanish, French, and most Latin,” he said shyly, not meeting his gaze. “I, uh, know a little bit of a few others, but I can also find a translation text and do it the hard way.”   
“How do you know all of those?” Martin asked.   
“My mom was French. She used English and French at home, usually a weird mixture. I took some archival classes and language during college- that's why I was hired. Most people don't bother learning new languages now. Well, didn't, at the time.”   
“I know we have at least one or two statements in French,” Martin said. “Mind taking a look?”   
“No. I mean, yes. I mean- yea. I'll do it. Sorry.”   
Martin went on a mini spiel about not needing to apologize, but it was one Jon had heard many times before and so he tuned it out as he opened the doors to his- their- main office area.   
Only Melanie and Tim were in, both sitting at their desks. Melanie didn't even try to disguise the fact that she was reading a pulp fiction novel, busy ignoring Tim, who was complaining out loud about “statement of Joe Spooky regarding Mysterious Happenings” as he sorted through a thick stack of papers. Both paused and looked up, though, as the three walked in.  
“You've got to be kidding me!” Melanie said angrily, standing up. “Bad enough he’s staying at your place, now you bring him back!”   
Michael flinched, and despite being taller by far, stepped behind Jon.   
“Shut it, Melanie,” Martin said firmly. She actually gaped at him for a second while Tim rounded with a second attack, standing up as well.   
“Really? Really? It's not like we don't already have trouble with gender-bend Distortion, you bring back the original! I don't want a fucking two for one deal on batshit-crazy door pyshcos!”   
“....What does he mean, the orig-”   
“And he’s hounding on my brother, too! I can't beli-”   
“-please can everyo-”   
“Next thing you know he’ll get all long again and do his witch cackle-”  
Only one sound carried above the shouting.  
Suddenly tense and quiet, they all turned to see a yellow door creak open and a woman step out from behind in.   
At least, it was a woman in some ways. She wore a grey suit over a turquoise blouse that seemed to glitch out every few seconds. She was olive skinned with a dark bob that was sometimes tentacles and sometimes yarn and rarely hair, with eyes that were endless, hypnotizing spirals of saturated green and blue, the colour leaking from the irises and bleeding into the whites. She grinned, and her teeth were the thin razors of a deep sea fish.   
She laughed.   
And that's when Michael stepped forward, hands slightly bigger than they were before clenched in fists.   
“Go. Away.” He said, voice raw and shaking. The others stared, gaze flickering between him and the thing he once was part of.  
“Ouch, Michael, that almost hurt my feelings,” she drawled, voice echoing wrong in the small space, coming from everywhere and nowhere but never her mouth. “I just wanted to check in on my little brother, after all.”   
Jon and Martin caught each other's eye, faces in twin grimaces of anticipation. Tim had a grim expression of bitter success on his face, hand slowly creeping towards the stapler on his desk. Melanie remained stock still, eyes narrowed in anger.   
“- stop. Stop trying to mess with me,” Michael said, shaking his head a little, but there was a hint of worry in his voice.   
“Oh?” The Woman Who Was and Was Not purred. “They haven't told you? How interesting. This is quite the treat, Archivist.”   
“Jon?” Michael glanced over hesitantly, eyes catching in the strange luminescence of the Distortion. “What does she mean? Tell me she's lying. Tell me.”   
He wanted to step forward, to reassure him, to lie and tell him this was all nothing. But his limbs were tense and motionless, and any words died on his tongue.  
And so the Archivist did nothing but watch.   
The woman laughed, that same, haunting, half stolen laugh, and took a step forward.   
“That-that's mine,” He said, beginning to tremble.   
“Ours, little brother. It became ours when that old Archivist fed you to It Is Not What It Is, and for a time, you were me.” Green slime began to trickle from her nose, and all she did was grin, this time a grin of perfect straight white human teeth.   
“Stop.” For a split second, he flickered, and there were two versions of him, slightly off colored. Then it was just one, pale, scared and angry, hands shaking.   
“Isn't it beautiful? Let it out, Michael. Show what you really are. Join me.”   
“I'm nothing like you.”   
But the words were quiet, and everyone could see he didn't believe them.   
“Yes. Lie. Lie, Michael. But not right now. Show them what you can be. How beautiful you can be.”   
The room was quiet, and still, and thick with all kinds of fear.  
And then Michael Shelly changed.   
His loose blonde ringlets flickered and grew fuzzy with static, floating slightly slightly above where they should fall. His arms grew long and his hands massive and claw like, his height growing and growing until he was a stretched out version of his former self. The faded logo on his shirt changed nauseatingly every few seconds until it was just a spiral, swirling endlessly. His eyes mirror the pinwheel design, a similar toxic green and blue to the woman who claimed to be his sister, which bled from his eyes like tears. He was twisted, and terrifying, and monstrous. And behind him was a door.   
It was plain stained wood, dark with a brass handle and shiny numbers centered perfectly reading 212.   
“....Michael?” It was hard for Jon to speak, despite the reassuring whir of the tape recorder that had turned on amidst the chaos. Michael didn't turn, didn't turn to look at the new door that stood solitary in the room. He didn't move at all, except for the shuddering flickers that came with every change.   
“I see you’re learning. Why don't you take one of the assistants? I'm sure The Archivist doesn't need them all. What about the short one?” The Woman cooed.   
Michael hesitantly stretched out a hand, glancing around the room, eyes with no pupils searching the fearful faces. Then his hands moved, in slow practiced motions.  
Martin smiled.  
H O W A B O U T Y O U?.  
A train came hurtling through the room, smashing straight into the Distortion, a split second of noise and movement and speed before it was gone, and the Woman was caught off balance, stumbling a little, not eyes wide. Michale rocked with laughter, curling in on himself as it built and grew and he eventually gave a contented sigh before looking up at The Woman Who Was and Was Not and smiling.  
“Get the hell out of the Archives, Helen.”   
“You can't-”   
“Mine,” he snarled, baring teeth that resembled those of a cat more than those of a human. She scoffed, tucking a tentacle behind her ear.   
“Ugh, fine. But don't eat them all at once. The Archivist in particular will give you… indigestion.”   
She turned, disdainful, and heels clicking, opened her door and walked into the hallways beyond it, door creaking shut behind her and fading away.  
As she left, Michael seemed to shrink, until he was reasonably tall and his hair possibly buoyant and his teeth only a little too sharp. The door remained, as solid looking as ever.   
And the room was quiet, until Tim spoke, slowly but with a seriousness that fit the shocked air in the room.  
“Holy _shit_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yea like I said at the beginning this is suuuuuuper late. so. uh. yea.   
> anyways, we got some ~drama~ this chapter and the next few will (you guessed it) be a lot of Michael Fucks Around With New Found Powers. If that's not your thing, tell me a subplot you'd like to see. (Next big thing will be Avatar Therapist: wait you're not kidding wow) but also some Jonmartin confessions and fluff and maybe even some Jack and Michael fluff ;)   
> thanks for waiting nine hundred years for this probably not well paced mess!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anger, doors, quiet confessions, and siblings.

Martin was the first to break the silence that followed.  
“...I am so, so, so sorry.”   
He ducked his head, hands trembling, not daring to make eye contact with Jon or Michael or anyone.  
“W-what was that. How… why didn’t you tell me?” Michael’s voice was quiet, shaky, soft. His hands began to flap.   
“...you didn’t tell it?” Tim asked, sharp, glaring at the other two men. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You didn’t tell it.”   
Michael flinched.   
“I-I’m not an ‘it’,” he said defensively, but there wasn’t much conviction behind the words. Tim turned his angry gaze onto him.   
“Oh, par-don me, Mr. Big Hands. I wasn’t aware that people could _summon doors_.”   
Michael glanced behind him, confused, then paused.  
“I… I’m still a person. I’m still human.”   
“Did you see yourself, Michael?” Melanie said harshly. “That wasn’t fucking human. What you’ve done- t-that? That wasn’t human.”   
He turned to Jon, who just stood, frozen, watching silently.   
“...what am I?”  
“... an avatar. Another avatar for the Spiral,” he answered, barely audible.   
“Why didn’t you tell me.” The echoing imperfections of the Distortion warped his tense words, so that the sound seemed to come from all around. The static on the recorder crackled back, and his pupils were bleeding green onto his blue irises. Martin flinched.  
“...we knew you’d get upset, we thought- we thought it was safer-“  
“Safer? _Safer_? Safer for who?”   
“Enough,” Melanie said sharply, voice cracking like a whip through the echoes. Michael paused, luminous eyes locked on her, attentive. She took a slightly shaky breath and continued, words just as firm and unyielding.   
“What’s done is done. You three need to talk about it later. More importantly- where the hell did that door come from?”   
They all looked at the door in question, solid and seemingly unaffected by whatever was occurring around it. Michael tucked his hair behind his ear.  
“Me, I guess.”  
“Why does it look like the door to our flat?” Martin murmured, eyes still wide.   
“You're the experts on this,” Michael snapped, eyes flashing.  
“This isn't our rodeo, cowboy,” Tim said dryly, fingers wrapped firmly around the stapler. “And I don't like your tone.”   
He seemed to shrink back into himself, shoulders hunching. He bit his lip, not meeting the gaze of anyone in the room.   
“I… I don't know. Safe. The door goes home.”   
“Home where?” Melanie prompted.   
“I- home. Anywhere that feels right,” he said nervously. The recorder seemed to sputter in agreement.   
“Can I… open it?” Jon asked hesitantly. Michael tensed.   
“Private. ….I don't like it here. All the eyes. Can-can I go?”  
No one spoke. No one wanted to know what would happen if they said no. Taking it as permission, Michael quietly opened the door and slipped through. It creaked shut behind him, though the door to the apartment had never closed with such a finality. The noise echoed in the Archives.  
“Well. No one’s dead, but we did unleash a very upset and fully cognizant avatar into the wild,” Tim said after a minute of silence, setting down his impromptu weapon.   
“He- He won't _attack_ anyone,” Martin said weakly. “It's not like him.”   
“All we can hope is that he eventually calms down and comes back,” Jon said wearily, running a hand through his hair. Melanie, who’d been in a stunned silence up until that moment, suddenly started.   
“Shit.”   
“What?”   
“Jack.” She grabbed her jacket and began fumbling for her keys as she went running out, sneakers pounding through the halls.  
“What's that about?” Tim asked with a frown.   
“Her brother,” Martin murmured, sinking into a discarded chair shakily. “Michael knows him. But it's not like he's dangerous-!”   
“It's a monster because a monster ate it. I think it's safe to assume that same instinct is in its nature as well,” Tim said dryly.   
“He's not an IT, Tim,” Martin said angrily, glasses flashing as he glared. “Hes a person. A person who’s been hurt.”  
“If we took time to try and redeem every avatar we’d be killed,” he hissed. “It's a lost cause. We just play damage control.”   
“I'm a lost cause too, then,” Jon said quietly. The taller man looked up, anger melting into awkward worry.  
“No. Jon, you're nothing like that thing-”   
“I am. Martin- lets- ….. lets just go home.”   
Martin stood, approaching the Archivist who's eyes were dull and dark. Carefully, slowly, he intertwined his fingers with his, and gently guiding, let them out into the halls beyond.   
Alone, angry, and more upset than he’d like to admit, Tim sank back down into his seat and picked up his phone, clicking on his contacts.   
He stared at them for a few minutes before the screen went dark. 

\---

Michael walked the halls of his childhood home.   
Every step was familiar ground- each warped board, loose nail, every squeal and groan of the floor, they were all His. The occasional turn led to an identical hall, with its worn sky blue paint and vintage mirror and a solitary window. It was endless, and walking it was a mindless task if one let one’s brain wander enough to skip over the reality bending logic. Michael did not question the strange properties of the place, did not question the way his reflection bled and crackled, how each window had a different but equally impossible view. He walked, and walked, and let the repetitiveness soothe him until his hands could finally still and his breathing didn't catch in his chest.   
He stopped, and looked out one of the same window. The view outside was stormy, and the smell of brine and salt leaked through the caulking. He pressed a hand to the wall, leaning in closer for a better view. But his hand didn't meet the drywall. It met a door handle.   
With the curiosity that had killed him in the first place, Michael Shelly opened his door. 

\---

Jon hadn't felt so weary in a long, long time.   
He let Martin take him back to the flat without resistance, mind too numb to do much but follow. The worried looks and gentle hands didn't escape him, but comfort required stability, and stable was one thing Jon was not. The trip back had felt like a lifetime of silence, and the tension that had clenched his stomach as Martin unlocked the flat before it swung open to reveal its rightful interior ached even after it had been released.   
Martin led him over to the couch and sat him down, then went to the kitchen and bustled around with the beginnings of tea. Jon watched as he fussed over the kettle, coaxing the old stove to cooperate, digging in the dishwasher to find Jon’s favourite mug.   
“...why?”   
Martin turned around, eyes wide and startled.   
“Why what?” He asked, with a hint of worry in his voice, hands wringing slightly.   
“...why are you so nice to me? I- I haven't been kind to you since the beginning, Martin, and even now that I'm trying I'm- I'm not the easiest man to care for,” he stuttered out, gesturing loosely with his right hand. “You don't have a reason to be so… so gentle, and patient.”   
“...I care about you,” Martin said, clearing his throat and looking away, busying himself with adjusting the stove’s timer. “I… I have for a while now.”   
The flat was quiet, but it was a full, warm silence. The only sounds were those of the outside clatter and the soft bubbling of the water.   
“...Martin?”  
“Hm?”  
“Can you teach me how to be gentle again?”   
Soft hands pressed a steaming mug of tea into shakier, scarred hands.   
“Of course.”   
The whirring of the tape recorder clicked off. 

\---

  
Melanie’s heart pounded in her chest like a bass drum rattling speakers.   
It was the constant throbbing beat of panic as she ran out the Archives, as she waited impatiently at a station and gripped the handle bar tightly as she sped along the Underground. It rattled her thoughts as she jammed the buttons on the elevator, sweaty hands clenched, images of her brother and that stupid identical door bleeding into nightmares.   
When the lift arrived at the second floor with a soft chime, she raced off down the carpet halls, skidding to a halt and hammering on the door reading 211.   
The panic calmed when the door opened and she could see Jack and his door free apartment.   
“Mels, hey- is something wrong?” His surprised delight turned to confusion and worry as he caught sight of her face and tense body. He ushered her inside, closing the door behind him, and she shakily settled down on the futon.   
“You haven't seen him.”  
“See who?” Jack asked. He scratched at the faint shadow of stubble that had begun to grow, knowing that he was missing something but not quite sure what.   
She tugged at his hand, pulling him down beside her, then squeezed him tightly.   
“I love you, idiot,” she murmured, face buried in his flannel. “Don't do anything stupid, ok?”  
“...I love you too,” he said, relaxing into the embrace but brown eyes still wide with curiosity. “Has something happened?”   
Slowly, Melanie pieced together a story that she had never thought she'd share to a brother who she’d never thought would believe it. 

\--- 

Amanda hated fall.   
It's when she was reminded of him the most- the loose jackets and hunched figures with their hands buried in their pockets, hair that was tossed free by the wind, tall people in hoods. She despised it, the way it dredged up memories like a net scraping the sea floor.   
They hadn't even really been close when it happened. Med-school was taxing, and meeting Eve had made her life even more busy than usual. It wasn't that they hadn't tried to keep in touch, it was just that their lives were vastly different. Amanda was making her image, being bold and brave and exploring her limits. He… he had always been a sort of ghost even before it all.   
She ignored the prickling feeling on the back of her neck as she adjusted her scrubs, walking in from the murky dark of the parking lot into the bright lights of the hospital's main entrance. Amanda took a shortcut through a side hall to the lift, and waited as it rose to the third floor.   
The halls were full of muffled noises as the doors slid open, and she wove through the chaos of the psych ward to the reception area, not far from the landing. The man on duty smiled as he saw her approach.  
“Oh! Nurse Shelley, taking a night shift I see. It's good to see you. Here's some patient forms, and Dr. Matheson wants to see you in room 312 when you can to help with testing.”   
A plastic clipboard with a packet of paperwork was handed over by the smiling man, and Amanda tried to return the gesture as she took it.   
“Thanks, Leo. Let me know if anyone calls asking for me, right?”  
He nodded, and Amanda wove through the stream of nurses and doctors and assistants all passing through the halls. She scanned the first few papers quickly as she walked, trying to absorb the information while avoiding colliding with oncoming people. It was far quicker than she’d hoped when she arrived at 312, rapping on the door and opening it when a voice from within said “come in”.   
Inside a middle age woman sat nervously on the side of a hospital bed while a severe looking woman with raven black hair and a lab coat donned a pleased expression.   
“Ms. Riley, this is Nurse Shelley. Would you mind repeating what you saw to her?” the doctor said in a calm voice. The woman looked at Amanda a bit nervously, but began to speak, voice wobbling.  
“I was at home, on my own- ever since Ed died, I’ve been alone in the same flat. It's not much, but it was comfortable, enough for two people to love comfortably. Some people ask why I haven't moved out, into the country, where it's cheaper and calmer. There's just something about London that sings to me, the smoky air and massive buildings. But I'm rambling. I was in my living room, watching one of those serialized dramas- an excuse while I did my embroidery. It was all quiet, until I heard a door open.”  
She took a breath, looking at Amanda for reassurance. With a prompting nod, she continued.   
“I look over, but the front door’s still closed tight, locked up. There’s no other exterior doors, and no one else is inside with me. I decide to get up and look around. I'm not one to get frightened by scary noises, but I'm no fool either. Some things are better to be afraid of. I grab my cane, just in case. It's not something I need often around the home, only when I go for a walk about. I start going room to room, looking and listening.”  
“And I get into the kitchen and there he is. I mean, I think he was a boy- I don't want to judge, especially nowadays. He was tall, thin as a rail, with delicate features and these wide eyes. He had long blond hair, too, which was a bit unusual, but not more unusual than him being in my house. He looked all worried apologetic, and he was standing in front of a door that wasn't there before. “Sorry,” He said. “I didn't know anyone was here. A lot of the others were empty.” I have no clue what he meant, but he awkwardly turned around and opened that door, the door that was in the middle of what should have been a blank wall. Beyond it was a hallway, but not the hallway outside. It had blue paint, white baseboards, lovely if a bit out of repair. He stepped back into it. Now- I don't think my previous description really was good enough. It didn't get this edge about him, something just slightly off. His hair was a little too buoyant, his arms oddly long, his eyes shifting as the angle changed. He waved a bit, as if embarrassed, and closed it behind him, squeaking all the way. I blinked, and the door was gone and so was he.”  
“Sounds like a story for the Magnus Institute rather than a hospital, Ms. Riley,” Dr. Matheson said dryly, looking over at Amanda for back up.   
“...pardon, Doctor. I need to go,” she said hoarsely, and quickly fled the room, finding a quiet, unused storage closet. It was only when she was fully out of sight did she let the flood of thoughts roar.   
It wasn't him. There were plenty of tall men with long blond hair in London, and plenty that hadn't disappeared a decade prior. And the reference to the Magnus Institute had just been a smart remark. It was all a coincidence. Her mind was playing tricks on her because it was fall. She was reading too deeply into it.  
She took a breath, calmed herself, and slipped out into the bustle beyond, tucking all further thoughts out of sight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: ok what's next   
> also me: Michael has a skeptic sister  
> me: ok ok ok cool cool cool   
> hey, sorry this is super late and a weird sort of chapter. There was just a lot to wrap up (and even more to come) but I wanted to introduce some new stuff as well as making progress on the old. And yes, that was the love confession (come on, guys, they're anxious messes you can't rush them) with Jon and Martin so they're going to try and figure out what Relationships are for the next while. Also, these kids are ALL going to therapy (and Georgie and Tim will unionize for prank wars on Elias with the doors. I swear. At some point).  
> Everyone's reaction to the last chapter was super funny asdfghjkll thanks guys I'm glad you liked it. Kudos, comments, fanart?? (I'd lose it, honestly) are my favourite things. :3 thanks for the patience!!!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doors, prey, anniversaries, cuddles, and paranoia.

Michael didn't know how long he wandered before he realized that someone was in the halls with him. 

He could feel them- a warm, bleeding presence that leaked fear as it squirmed deeper into his guts, footsteps tap tapping as they ran. It wasn't an unpleasant sensation, but it reminded him a bit uncannily of digestion. The halls twisted around his prey, turning them around and tossing them about, playing with them as their fear grew. The fear felt good- warm, like liquid sunlight or warm cookies, such a nice feeling associated with something that made the human part of him scream. Curiously, he walked closer, the walls peeling back into an open door that bypassed the twisting turns of his own body. It was swallowed by the drywall the second he left it, leaving him in front of a mirror. He regarded his reflection in it.

He looked almost human. He’d lost the hat, somewhere along the way, and he noticed it's absence with a pang of disappointment. The hair tie had gone missing as well, leaving his hair down, the thick frizzy mop of blond framing his gaunt face. His wide eyes, pale blue if you could ignore the jagged glints of green and pink, looked at his own reflection curiously. 

He was starting to mess with his hair when he heard the footsteps, much closer this time, heading towards him. He looked over just in time to see a frantic looking young man round the corner. 

He was dark skinned, with short black hair. He was wearing a grey sweatshirt over a blue t-shirt for a band Michael didn't recognize, as well as jeans and battered sneakers. His eyes widened when he saw Michael, but it wasn't fear as he had expected. Instead it was…. relief?

“Oh my god,” the man said, running up to him. His voice trembled, his hands shook, but it was definitely relief in his voice, relief of not being alone. “Oh my god, I thought I was the only one in here.” 

“I…” Michael was honestly too taken aback to say anything, let alone explain that he was the thing this man should be running from. He swallowed the reasoning and settled for a half truth. “...I did too.” 

“I'm Robin,” he said eagerly. “You?” 

“Michael.” 

“This… this is crazy. I feel like I'm dreaming,” Robin said, not noticing the hesitance in Michael’s voice, gesturing wildly. “I just found this weird door in my aunt's house in Harford Cross, and I opened it because I was curious, but it was just these halls, and when I walked in, it closed behind me. I started walking around, but it's just the same thing, over and over, and I feel like something's watching me.” 

“Oh,” Michael said, because he did not remember going anywhere near Harford Cross, let alone leaving a door open while he explored. Robin finally seemed to notice something was odd, and he frowned a little.

“How about you?” He asked. 

“Huh?”

“How’d you get in here? How long have you been stuck?” 

“...she fed me to it,” he murmured, the words falling out of his mouth, feeling numb. “She gave me to that Thing. And now I'm here.” 

Robin paused, unsure what to say or how to comfort him. 

“...wow.”

“There are ways around, though,” Michael said, because the sheer look of despair Robin donned, though warm, pained him greatly. The man's eyes widened hopefully. 

“Do you know a way out?” 

“...yes?” 

Michael hadn't tried opening a door in a specific place on purpose yet. He’d just wandered, looking out the windows, and when he found a sight interesting, he peaked out to have a look. He had had a run in with an older woman, but mostly his excursions had been alone. But the way Robin’s face lit up meant that he was going to try, at the very least. 

Hesitantly, he reached out to the wall, and a doorknob formed under his hand like it always did. The door opened to a country road, tall grass swaying in the breeze. It wasn't in Harford Cross, but it wasn't the halls either, so Michael counted it as a win. 

Robin walked through the doorway warily, as if afraid it was all an illusion and beyond would be more halls and mirrors. But once he had fully stepped out into the sunshine, he beamed, a giddy, shaky smile. 

“Come on,” He said, beckoning excitedly. “Lets go!” 

“...I can't,” Michael said, quiet. 

“What?” 

“It is me, but I am its,” he murmured, finally understanding his odd connection to the place. 

“You can't stay in there!” 

“I can't leave it, either,” Michael said, smiling despite himself. The impossibility of it all was so amusing, and he couldn't hold back his laughter for long. 

It rang just slightly wrong in his ears, and Robin noticed too.

“Michael…”

“Shelley,” Michael said with a smile. “Michael Shelley. But trying to find me is a lost cause, Robin. I wouldn't waste your time.” 

He closed the door behind him with a satisfying creak. 

\---

  
  


“Amanda. How nice to see you.” 

Amanda closed the door behind her as she entered the office, sinking into the plush couch and setting down her purse. 

“Sorry I scheduled this appointment so last minute, Olivia,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. 

“I had expected it, to be honest,” Olivia said, closing a desk drawer and pulling out a new notepad, turning her chair to face her patient. “The anniversary is coming up, isn't it?” 

Amanda’s heart clenched in her chest, and she made an effort to hold her hands perfectly still in her lap. “Yes.” 

“Is that what you wanted to talk about?” 

“He would be 36,” she murmured. “36. Ten years. Ten years and there's not even a body.”

“You don't know he’s dead,” Olivia said gently. “There's a possibility he’s just started a life somewhere else.” 

“And he didn't call? Send a letter?” 

“I know you two weren't on the best of terms after your mother’s passing. Maybe he didn't want to bother you.” 

“You don't have to keep pretending that he's alive.” 

Olivia sighed quietly. “Even if he isn't, it's not your fault.” 

“Then why does it keep haunting me like this? I- I know there's a doctor patient confidentiality, but a patient told me this ridiculous story about a door from nowhere and a man- a man with long blond hair, and- it just got to me.” 

Amanda let out a shaky, long held breath, running a hand through her hair. 

“Maybe telling your story to the Institute would help you let go?” 

She snorted. “That fucking place? I didn't trust them before Mi- ...before my brother worked there. Now I certainly don't.” 

“Letting go is part of the grieving process, Amanda,” Olivia said. “I know you have trouble letting Michael go. You have to acknowledge him, what he was to you, and what happened. Only then can you let it rest in peace.” 

“Some years I think I've done it. All spring and summer I'm fine. And then fall hits, and- and- damn it!” 

“It's not your fault. What happened was not your fault.”

“Yet he haunts me like a ghost anyways.”

“I really do think talking to the Magnus Institute- no matter what your feelings on them are- would help,” Olivia said. “I'm not forcing you to do it, but I do recommend it. Have you talked with your psychiatrist about upping your dosage for a while?” 

“I scheduled an appointment but I haven't heard back.”

“You could also talk to your wife about all of this. I'm sure Eve would love to help in any way she can.” 

“I just don't want to bother her about it,” Amanda said with a sigh. “She’s so busy with the force.”

“It wouldn't bother her.” 

“...thanks, Olivia.” 

“No problem, Amanda. When do you think you’ll come in next?”

\---

Jon fell asleep in Martin's arms. 

It was incredible- he felt so incredibly giddy that part of him wanted to bounce up and down and squeal like he was a kid at a birthday party. Instead, he couldn’t help but smile, a warm, fond smile down at the weary man finally at rest in his arms. 

Jon was delicate while he slept. Hair rumpled, glasses askew, hand clinging to Martin’s sweater and unwilling to let go. The frowns and furrowed brows that were so common when awake were temporarily smoothed out in sleep. Martin was surprised how fragile he was, once you looked past his words and stern gazes, how worn he looked in sleep. 

The evening before had been quiet, full of tea and books and reassurances that Michael would come back. Full of words unspoken but heard. 

Gently, Martin moved a lock of hair away from Job’s face, lulled by the rhythm of his breathing, and slowly he drifted to sleep as well, comforted by the other man’s presence. 

Because finally Martin Blackwood was home. 

—-

Tim stayed up late, far later than usual, listening anxiously to the police radio. 

He’d gone back to his flat after only a few hours, the oppressive judging silence of the Archives creeping him out. His heart felt heavy in his chest the whole time, like it’s been replaced with a rock. Jon’s words rang incessantly in his head - “I'm a lost cause too, then”. 

Maybe Michael has changed. It certainly wasn’t the same creature that had taunted and trapped them all the time ago. It was shy, wary, and seemingly unwilling to hurt people. Jon and Martin trusted it, too. He wondered if the thing had family. Parents? Siblings? Lovers? Were there people mourning him, somewhere? Or was he alone, forgotten by the world that he had been shoved back into? 

Maybe he was worrying over nothing. Maybe Michael wouldn’t take anyone like the Distortion did. 

But he still listened to the police radio, waiting for someone to announce a missing person, a body, or an impossible door.

When the darkness called him to sleep, his dreams were full of clowns and doors and screams. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michael will return to Jon and Martin next chapter he just had to mess around and make some plot points first.  
> Also I’ve realized I have so many characters and keeping track of them all is a nightmare oops   
> Anyways thanks for reading, kudos and comments are fuel for my soul <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunion and making up, some wild stories about doors, a skeptical therapist, and a choice he can’t take back (and isn’t sure he wants to).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s alright by mother mother is the current fluff vibe for this piece

It was in the early hours of the morning when the sound of a creaking door echoed through the flat. 

Martin perked up, and dislodged the half-asleep Jon, who mumbled something about getting up soon, before slipping out of the bedroom. Standing in the living room, as nervous looking as ever but just slightly less human, was Michael.

“Thank god you’re ok!” Martin said, unable to help the relieved outburst. Michael jumped, startled. He looked like he'd been caught in a whirlwind, hair all tangled, clothes wrinkled and askew. Martin hurried over, wanting to mess with his hair, or adjust his clothes, but he stilled his nervous hands. 

“I… you’re not mad?” 

“Why would I be? I was worried sick, though. You could’ve been anywhere!” His hands rested on his hips, and he was uncomfortably aware that he was acting like his mother, though he couldn’t help himself. His anxiety had been gnawing at him the whole of the previous day, the what-ifs like a swarm of bats bartering against the glass. He’d busied himself caring for Jon, and the warmth of being around him had helped, but the worries were incessant and ceaseless. 

Then Michael did something Martin hadn’t expected. 

He stepped forward and hugged him.

Despite being taller by far, he found a way to nuzzle his face in the crook of Martin’s neck, arms hesitantly clinging to him. 

“...sorry,” he murmured. “I- I-“ 

“It’s alright,” Martin said softly, and after a second, returned the hug, holding the taller man gently. “It’s ok.”

The slight creak of the bedroom door betrayed Jon, though the embracing duo didn’t break their grip. Silently, Jon walked forward, and hesitantly joined, holding the other two in his grasp, forehead resting on Michael’s arm. They stayed like this for a long, full moment before Jon pulled away. 

“Tea?” He asked weakly, but the other two could see the message behind the word: should we talk? 

“Yea,” Martin said, pulling away but smoothing out Michael’s rumpled jacket. “Yea, I think that would be nice.” 

Michael nodded in agreement, and as the kettle was put on to boil, Jon began to explain.

—- 

Olivia Bryant was good at her job. 

It wasn’t a brag, or an overstatement. It was simply true. She enjoyed talking with people and working through their problems. She always had been a mediator and a peacekeeper, and her job allowed her to use that skill to really help people. Sometimes, though, it got to her. She specialized in phobias and delusions related to the paranormal, though not all of her patients had cases like that. Some of the stories she heard, about being almost swallowed by the ground, or dreams about being desperately lost at sea, or moving mannequins, they bothered her. Kept itching at the back of her mind even when she wasn’t working. 

Amanda was one of her longest running patients, and yet the same issue kept springing up, no matter how Olivia tried to get her to let go. Normally the topic of her missing brother wasn’t one that bothered Olivia - a bit odd, yes, saddening, yes, but it was Amanda’s inability to go through the cycle of grief that usually was the focus. But something about the story Amanda had mentioned, about a door that shouldn’t be and a man with long blond hair, she couldn’t quite let go. 

She tried to forget about it, preparing for a last minute meeting that was scheduled by Robin. He’d sounded urgent in his call, so Olivia had adjusted her schedule to fit him in. She double checked his file on her laptop just before they were scheduled to meet, making sure she knew what his current meds were and if there had been any changes. It was startling, therefore, when he suddenly burst in. 

“Olivia, some CRAZY SHIT just happened to me,” he said, dumping his backpack and bike helmet on the floor. She turned her chair to face him, trying to pretend that hadn’t almost given her a heart attack. 

“I’m guessing you want to talk about that, then,” she said, faintly amused. 

“It was the weirdest ducking thing,” he said, kicking off his sneakers and grabbing one of the fidgets next to him. “I was in my Aunts house- it was fine, by the way- and I found this weird door so I opened it and there was this hall I’d never seen so I walked in but the door shut behind me so I decided to walk around but it was a maze of just the same hall, over and over and over and I felt like there was something watching me, and eventually found this guy, and he said his name was Michael Shelley and that he’d been lost in there and he found a door somehow, like the same door at the beginning but not where it was and it opened out on this field and let me out and I said he should come with because that place was seriously messed up but he said he couldn’t and that it was a waste of time to look for him and it turns out I wasn’t actually far from a town so I got back in time for the family reunion and then I called you and I googled him and he’s apparently been missing for ten years and-“ 

“Wait.”

“-then- what, wait?” 

“Shelley? Michael Shelley?” Olivia’s mind was reeling. It wasn’t possible. A missing person doesn’t show up in someone else’s hallucinations. Especially if the person doesn’t even know them, let alone that they’re missing. 

“Yea. He looked like he was in his thirties, crazy long blonde hair, kinda dazed and lost looking. What?” Robin paused, noticing the look on her face. 

“I- nothing.” She stopped herself before she could say anything. She wasn’t going to break patient confidentiality. “Are you sure it wasn’t a dream? Or a… result of a trip?”

“Olivia, I did weed ONCE. And yea, yea I’m sure because I found this hair tie in the hall so I put it around my wrist. I swear I didn't have it before.” 

“Even so, you could’ve found it anywhere,” Olivia 

argued, trying to find the logic in what was quickly becoming an impossible situation. 

“You don’t believe me. Maybe I should just go to the Magnus Institute. I know they wouldn’t argue with me.” 

“I’m not saying I don’t believe you,” she put in quickly. “Just that- there are more logical explanations.”

“Then why did you look so weird when I said his name?” Robin shot back, arms crossed. “Have you heard of something like this before?”

“...I have a patient that is a relation. It merely surprised me.” 

“Ha! I knew something was up!” Robin said triumphantly. 

“Still. Don’t try and find the poor family. They’ve been through enough,” Olivia said firmly. Robin looked suitably cowed. 

“Ok, Ok. But I AM going to look into this more.” 

“I can’t convince you not to?”

“Nope.” 

“Very well. But moderate and be careful.”

“Careful? What should I be worried about?” Robin said with a faint smile.

“You may not find what you want,” Olivia said with a grim face. 

She’d had patients that had gotten obsessions with conspiracy before. But this was the first time that she actually thought there might be a kernel of truth in it. 

—-

Hours and many conversations later, Jon and Martin had reluctantly agreed that Michael needed to try and figure out how to control the doors. So yet again, Michael wandered his halls.

He tried to open doors in specific locations, focusing and willing the door to open there. The more he practiced, the easier and more accurate it became, and by the time he opened up in an alley in downtown that he’d passed on his way to work ten years ago, he felt confident that he was gaining control. 

He was about to close the door when a sight made him freeze. A burly woman had pinned a scrawny kid up against the alley wall, and was squeezing their throat as the kid squirmed. A hard knot seemed to form in Michael’s chest. 

“Stop.”

His voice was surprisingly confident, though it was warped and echoed impossibly in the space. The woman paused, turning to face the challenging newcomer. Eventually, she released the kid, letting him slump down as she took a few steps towards Michael. 

“None of your business, hippie. Leave it or you’ll get some too,” she growled. “It’s my kid. I deal with them.” 

Icy anger flooded through him, and he barely had to gesture for a door to warp into the pavement under the woman’s feet. The door opened without resistance, and she tumbled into the vastness of the halls. The door closed as soon as she was swallowed, creaking back out of existence. 

He could feel her in him, a squirming angry fearful thing, crawling desperately around his insides. Regarding it for a second, Michael found that he was… pleased. 

He walked over to the kid, who was now regarding him with wide terrified eyes. He offered a slightly too big hand. 

“Here. I know a place that can help you.” 

It was somewhere between dropping the kid off at social services and going back to the flat that he decided that the bad woman in his stomach, slowly dissolving, would remain a secret. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michael can have a little child abuser, as a treat  
> I actually feel obliged to try and post more regularly since holy sHIT this fic has gotten w a y more popular than I had ever expected. I posted some art of Michael and Amanda on my Instagram (@redribbonmagpie) in case you were curious how I imagined them! Also the love and support and comments from you all just hnghhhhh keep me going!! I’m so glad this has gotten such a good response and y’all are the sweetest readers a writer could wish for <3 comments and kudos are the spice of (my) life


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael and Jack catch up, and Tim, Melanie, Jon and Martin have a nice long chat about Michael, Avatars, dating, and Horrom.

<https://uquiz.com/y14Evh>

\---

“...damn. Sounds like it was a busy day.”   
Michael nodded, hands flapping a little as he finished telling the story. Jack had listened attentively, phone recording on the desk beside him, and now broke out of the daze he'd fallen into.   
“It's all so new,” Michael admitted. “It feels… weird. Like, puberty sort of weird. My body is different and I don't entirely get it yet.”  
“I mean, it sounds pretty complicated,” Jack said, leaning forward and putting his elbows on his knees. He was close enough that Michael could smell the orange hair product he used. It was oddly comforting.   
“The whole situation, the other woman, the missing memories, all of it,” Jack added hurriedly, gesturing one handedly. “It sounds like… a lot to take in.”   
“And Jon and Martin are together now,” Michael added distractedly, messing with his necklace. Jack blinked.  
“...I thought they were married, honestly.”  
“Understandably.”   
“...are they doing well?”   
“I think so,” Michael said. “I mean, I've been… busy. But they seem to be good, things going well. Jon seems less- less tense, you know? Letting down the harried burden of the world that comes through in sarcasm and annoyance. I think Martin is good for him. And him for Martin, as well.”   
“I don't know them that well, though from what I've seen, that seems like a pretty accurate analysis. You're pretty observant, you know.”   
Michael blushed a little, tugging the necklace around on the cord to avoid eye contact. “I-I don't know about that.”   
“I mean, I get why Gertrude hired you. You're smart,” Jack said. “And clever, you've got a good eye, and you're curious.”   
Michael got more flustered, but the name also still dug into him, clawing up memories that stung.   
“ _Thank you, Michael. Your work was exemplary in this case,” Gertrude said, giving him a small smile as she closed the file he’d nervously handed over earlier in the day. He set down the fresh cup of tea he'd brought- the last one had been abandoned half-way through and had long since gotten cold. He busied himself with clearing away the old dishes so he could hide the excitement that bloomed in his eyes at the praise.  
“Next thing you know, I’ll be bringing you on trips, I suppose,” she said, turning back to the thick, dusty volume next to her. Michael jumped, startled, the cup and saucer rattling in his hands.   
“I, uh- trip? Like, like the ones you go on with Gerry?”   
“Not necessarily like the ones I go on with Gerard,” she said calmly. “I had something special in mind coming up in the next few months.”   
“Oh! Of- of course! I'd be happy to come with and help. You, uh, you just tell me when. So I can have time to pack and do research.” He offered a smile that was brighter and less timid than usual, the giddy excitement of being chosen, of being seen, of being approved making him almost chipper.   
“That curiosity is why I chose you,” she said, with a smile that didn't seem forced until years and years later. _  
“... didn't help me when I needed it the most,” he muttered, mostly to himself. Jack winced, sensing he had hit a sore spot.   
“Sorry, I think that upset you,” he said, though Michael couldn't discount the almost prying edge to his worried gaze, the itching curiosity that bled through his concern. It was unnervingly similar to the gaze of the Archivist, in either incarnation.   
“Just made me remember,” Michael said, offering a weak, apologetic smile. “It's alright.”   
“So.” Jack was clearly a bit unsure of what to do, and he ran a hand through his hair. “You, uh, want some food? Some tea?”   
“Tea would be lovely,” Michael said, with a genuine smile.   
The smile that Jack returned felt almost as warm and nice as the struggling remains of the woman worming around his halls. 

  
\---

“..He WHAT?”   
“Wait a second,” Tim said, narrowing his eyes. “You're telling me he let the person go. Just. Let them go.”   
“That's what he said,” Jon said, a bit wearily. He’d slumped onto his desk, resting his chin on his arms. Martin, behind him, rested a hand on his shoulder.   
“And I trust that he was honest,” he added firmly.   
“An avatar. Of the equivalent of lies. Being honest.” Melanie raised an eyebrow. “Why do I find that hard to believe?”   
“I don't have an explanation,” Jon said a bit irritably. “Just… stop bothering him, ok? He’s not a bad guy.”   
“Then what exactly is he?” Challenged Tim, arms crossed over his chest. “He sure as hell isn't on our side.”   
“He's on his own side.”  
“Which often aligns with our side,” Martin added. “He doesn't want the apocalypse either.”   
“So what does he want?” Melanie fired back. “How do I know that my brother is safe? That he doesn't want to, to, I don't know, trick us into trusting him so he can kill us all. We didn't trust him before, why now?”   
“Your brother can take care of himself,” Jon said. “...we do need to talk about him, at some point. Later. The answer is, we don't know for sure that we can trust him. But he made Helen go away, he let his meal get away. I think he just wants to adjust to the world again.”   
“Meal?”  
“Whatever. You get the point.”   
“He just wants to live, ok?” Martin said defensively, arms crossed over his chest. “He wants a chance to make up for all the time that was taken from him. Surely you can get that.”  
He stared intently at the other two assistants, his anger at the injustice and his pointedness equally as clear. Tim was the first to look away.  
“...fine. But he has to help around the Archives. And stop the unknownings,” he muttered, not looking up.   
“And I'm still going to keep an eye on him, especially around Jack,” Melanie said.   
“I don't really think that should be a concern,” Jon murmured, eyes almost closed. Melanie's glare snapped over to him.   
“Really? Really? And why do you think that?”  
“They’re quite fond of each other,” Jon said irritatedly, not bothering to open his eyes. Nevertheless, Melanie could feel his gaze on her. It was a sensation she was just starting to grow used to, and that scared her. The gaze itself wasn't so bad- the fact that she was starting to think of it as normal was. She narrowed her eyes and closed her arms.  
“What is that supposed to mean?”   
“They’re crushing on each other, Melanie,” Martin explained patiently. She felt her face go red, though if it was with anger or embarrassment or both it was unsure.  
“-w-What?”  
“I mean, they hang out a lot,” Martin said, taking a small step back. “And Michael always gets this smile when he talks about Jack, so-”   
“A-Gah!”   
Tim snickered quietly, and Melanie glared furiously at him.  
“Sorry, it's just- dating an avatar. Who would ever do that?” He said, still clearly amused by the thought. Martin began to turn a bright red, and sputtered a little defensively. Tim actually looked taken aback, then glanced between the apparently sleeping Jon and Martin. Melanie paused, reeling with the conclusion that she was drawing.   
“Holy… you're kidding me!”  
“You two are finally together?” Melanie said in disbelief. “Fuck. I owe Georgie twenty pounds.”  
“And Daisy owes me! She’s paying for tonight's carryout!” Tim said triumphantly. Jon opened his eyes, exasperated but unable to hide the slightest hint of amusement.   
“Oh, shut up,” he said, but there was no force behind the words. Martin was still a flustered mess, and as Jon casually grabbed his hand, he somehow grew more embarrassed yet pleased.   
“Since when did this turn into an office sitcom?” Tim said, grinning widely. “I think I'm the only one not dating someone in the Institute.”   
“Har-har,” Melanie said sarcastically. “Neither am I.”   
“But you're dating Jon’s ex, which is SO romcom. Except this place isn't really funny. What would the rom com horror equivalent be? Romhor? Horrom?”   
“God, that's awful, please stop.”   
“I feel like romantic horror actually is a genre-”   
“Horrom sounds like a shitty fake foreign name that the Stranger would use. ‘Why yes I am the dreaded Horrom, I eat children’s skin-’”   
“There actually was a statement-”  
“Oh, gross!”   
“Please erase this whole conversation from my mind.”   
The group sat bickering and teasing until they'd forgotten what the whole point of the conversation was. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The link at the top of the chapter is for the personality quiz I made with some of the characters from the fic, just a little apology for being so incredibly late and the chapter being so choppy. I just got so twisted up with school I kept forgetting to make time to write! But I still appreciate every single kudo and comment, they seriously make my day! Also everytime someone says they like the oc's in this fic another ten years is added onto my lifespan so I think I'm pretty much going to be immortal bc y'all are so! Nice!! I'm going to try and get the next chapter up soon, but we all know that it's a 50/50 chance of that lol. Thank you so much for being the best readers!!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waiting rooms, broken clocks, cooperating to wreck shit as a kink, statements regarding dolls, roommates, and doors, and some teasing between old friends.

The small room Robin sat in was musty and thick with dust. His chair squeaked as he bounced his leg, and the table he sat on one side of was uneven and worn. The room was largely taken up by wall to wall bookshelves, and gave the unpleasant feeling of being watched on all sides by the various tomes on the sagging shelves. A small stack of notebook paper sat in front of him with a mechanical pencil, but Robin had asked specifically to talk to someone they'd called the Archivist. It was an odd title, but then again, the whole place was odd, squat and mismatched and generally unnerving. The few people Robin had seen on his way in, including the smiling round faced man with a steaming cup of tea in one hand, he vaguely remembered from the last time he’d visited the Institute a year or so ago.  
During his wait, he'd investigated the incessant ticking noise that had bothered him the second he set foot in the room. After looking around, Robin found the source- a broken clock who’s minute hand spun rapidly and unsteadily as if it was drunk, remarkably old and fragile and also a good few feet out of his reach. He’d pulled the chair over to the bookshelf it was on and had begun to climb onto it hesitantly when the door opened.   
Robin made a small meep of surprise, and he unceremoniously fell to the floor.  
“Oh, shit,” a low voice said, and the person hurried over. He was in his early thirties, dark skinned with a buzzcut, wearing a half buttoned dress shirt over a tank top. Robin felt his arms wrap around him and lift him up with ease. He couldn't help but notice how fit the man was, and the thought made him blush a little.  
“I- sorry, there's just that clock, and it was bothering me-”   
“Oh, that thing? It's been driving me mental too, and I'm barely in here.” The man, after lifting Robin to his feet, reached over and picked up the offending item, turning it over looking for a switch. Finally steadied, Robin dragged his chair back over and sat down.  
“Are you the Archivist?” He asked curiously. The man snorted.  
“No. I'm Tim Stoker, but just call me Tim. I'm one of the assistants. Jon couldn't be bothered to tear himself away from his new boyfriend, so I came to take your statement in his stead. If that's alright, of course.”  
Robin paused, mind racing to process Tim’s words. “Uh, um, sure? I mean, that's ok?”  
“It's a whole tradition that the Archivist takes statements, not like it really matters,” Tim added. He hadn't found a button, and now shook it a bit with a small frown.   
“Oh,” Robin said. “Well, it's alright with me, if it is with you.”  
Tim had gotten more aggressive in his approaches to stop the clock, from trying to open it and break the mechanisms to glancing between the edge of the table and the glass face.  
“You mind?” He asked casually, and when Robin shook his head, he smashed the clock into the table, sending shards of glass and splinters of wood flying. The metal hands, considerably bent, still spun in their sickening dance.   
Robin reached out, careful to avoid the glass, and yanked out the hands. He set them on the table in front of him with a satisfying click. Tim looked over at him, a glimmer of new appreciation in his gaze.  
“You dealt with this kind of stuff before?” He asked, grabbing a broom from the corner and sweeping the debris into a pile, still watching Robin with a curious light in his eyes.  
“Huh?” Robin blinked, gaze snapping over to the taller man. “Um- Well, what do you mean? Like, broken clocks?”  
Tim snooks his head dismissively. “No, no- like, weird stuff. I mean, you're here, so you must have some story.”  
“...Well, I have made a statement before. Um. Twice.”  
Tim raised an eyebrow incredulously. “You've been here three times? What, misfortune follows you like the protagonist of a pulp fiction novel?”   
“No!” He felt his face heat up and his arms crossed a little. “-I made one statement about the doll from my childhood, and then the other about my old roommate. I wouldn't be here unless anyone else would listen to me, and since my therapist didn't like parts of those stories, I went here.”   
“And now?”  
“And now I'm here about this man in these infinite hallways.”  
Tim paused. “Michael?”  
“-h-how do you know his name? Have you met him? Do you know what happened to him?” Robin’s eyes widened, the questions spilling out of him.  
“Hold up. This was recent?”  
“-yea, a day or two ago, why?”  
“You're the one he let out, then,” Tim murmured, setting down the broom distractedly. He finally sat down in the chair across from Robin.  
“So you do know about him.”  
“...yea. He's not dangerous, not really. Don't go wandering around his halls if you find the door again, though.”  
“Hang on,” Robin said, scrunching his face. “I'm supposed to tell you about what happened. But then you're going to explain whatever the fuck you're talking about. Ok?”   
“Alright, alright, just let me- oh, there's already one here. Spooky.”  
He pressed the button on the tape recorder at the edge of the table that Robin swore wasn't there already, then turned back, attentive.   
“Statement of…?”  
“...Third statement of Robin Taylor, regarding an encounter with Michael Shelley and discussions about said encounter.”  
“Statement begins.”

\---

“Hey, Jon, you remember any statements from a Robin Taylor?”  
Tim stood in the doorway, clipboard in hand, filling out the rest of the client contact information form that Robin had done at the end of his statement. Jon, who’d been nose deep in a thick, boring looking science book, glanced up and adjusted his glasses.  
“...something about a doll and a roommate,” He said distractedly. “I know they're around, I filed them in the Stranger. Unusual.”  
“In what way?” Tim asked with a frown, putting the pencil to his lips as he listened.   
“Well, more than one statement per person is unusual, and both of the same kind is even more so. Makes me suspect something is even more wrong than normal.”   
“You happen to remember the numbers?”   
“No, but I could learn.”  
“...that's so creepy, plea-”  
“4231 and 5056,” He interrupted, already looking back down at his book.  
“...you’re a real arse, sometimes, you know.”  
“Hm. Why are you following it up? Did you think he was cute?”  
Tim sputtered. Sure, Robin could be called cute, with his round dark eyes and wild curly hair and enthusiastic gestures and rambling, but being called out by Jon of all people was a harsh reality.   
“H-just shut up.”   
“I See how embarrassed you are.”  
“Oh, you bloody well shouldn't go around making puns, Jon, I only have this much patience-”   
“He helped you break a clock, that's practically your love language.”   
“Jon!”   
The argument continued until Tim was too flustered and Jon was too bored to come up with another retort. And when that happened, Tim huffed and made his way to the file sections, looking for the file numbers he'd scrawled at the edge of the page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sweats* I haven't updated in, like, forever, so... surprise??  
> Part f why I'm late is that I busy trying to start a new TMA fic, Nights Like Darkest Pitch, whichever is a Jack the Ripper inspired Victorian detective AU. Which, shameless self promotion, you might wanna check out! I only have one chapter out but I made hoping to get another one out soon.  
> Next chapter will be talking about Robin's previous statements and finally starting to connect the two groups of characters. Yay! And if you thought I didn't like Tim, here's a chapter in which I show my love for him. It seems like this fic may never end because I keep making up subplots. I didn't even plan for this diversion to happen.   
> Comments always mean a lot to me, but especially since tomorrow is my birthday! Every single sweet comment of yours is like a cupcake sent my way. I mean. Digital equivalent of a cupcake. But seriously, everyone is so sweet about this fic and it means the world! I hope you guys are all doing well.   
> Thanks for reading!! <3


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Transcripts of cases 4231 and 5056, regarding Robin Taylor and his relationship with the Stranger.   
> Statement begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tws!! stay safe and hmu if you want a chapter summary, edited chapter, etc. I'd be more than happy to help! I just thought that this chapter (especially the second half) deserved some warnings. if you also like tws, let me know and I'll do them for every chapter! 
> 
> case 4231: Stranger Danger (Stranger related nonsense), creepy doll and it's related shenanigans, minor horror aspects, mild violence and gore 
> 
> case 5056: Stranger Danger, taxidermy, medical sciences, reference to rape (not by name and not an actual event), paranoia, drugging, temporary paralyzation, attempted skinning/taxidermy of a conscious human, attempted murder while victim was conscious, mild but disturbing violence 
> 
> stay safe!

Written transcript of the tape for case 4231. Transcript begins.   
[Recorder turns on. There is the muffled rustling of papers. The Archivist clears his throat.]

ARCHIVIST: This is the statement of Robin Taylor, regarding…? 

ROBIN: ...Regarding a doll I had as a child. 

ARCHIVIST: Statement begins. Start when you’re ready. 

[There is a moment of silence, and a chair scoots a little. Robin sighs, clearly uncomfortable and nervous] 

ROBIN: ...how do I start? 

ARCHIVIST: However you like. Start by talking about your childhood, or how you got the doll. Relax. The story will tell itself. 

[The static on the recorder swells, then dies down. Robin begins.]

ROBIN: ...I never really was one of those boys, you know? Those kids obsessed with trucks, or superheroes, or whatever. Don’t get me wrong, I was hyper as hell, but that was more the ADHD than anything. I guess part of it was my mums. They always got me a variety of toys, usually cheap or second hand, since we didn’t have a lot of money when I was young. So, I guess that’s why it wasn’t that unusual that they brought home a doll one time. 

[He pauses] 

It… well, it was sort of fancy, and odd, even by first impressions. It was made of porcelain, you know, the kind that squeaks and chinks when you move it. You could tell it was old, too. Some of the paint was chipping away. The left eye socket was empty. It was a girl, with long dark curly hair all styled, wearing a beautiful dress made of stained lace and dusty maroon and purple velvet. -she didn’t look blank, though, like most dolls. Her one dark eye seemed to twinkle mischievously, and her mouth was shaped in a little smirk. ...it really sounds like something out of a horror movie, doesn’t it? But at the time I adored her the second I saw her. I asked about it, later, and apparently mom found it at an open house of a couple, the Rostov’s. 

[Scribbling of pen on paper, then a noise to continue]

ROBIN: I called her Isidora. I don’t really remember how I got that name. A dream, maybe? Anyways, she quickly became one of my favourite toys. I would set up tea parties, and tell her about school, and how I was struggling. It felt… it’s so stupid, but it felt like I was actually talking to someone, like she was actually listening. And for a while, it was- well, it was fine. I played with her every day, slept with her on my nightstand at night- don’t look at me like that, I was 6! 

ARCHIVIST: Yet you remember this all clearly? 

ROBIN, flustered: Yes! I haven’t even gotten to the weird stuff and you’re already doubting me?

ARCHIVIST: I didn’t mean to interrupt. Please, continue. 

[Someone clears their throat]

ROBIN: ...it was a few weeks in when stuff got a bit weird. I’d wake up and she’d be in a different spot every morning. Once she was on my dresser, once on my toy trunk, stuff like that. I just figured I’d forgotten where I’d actually sat her down, at first. It wasn’t that much of a stretch. Then it got… less easy to explain. Sometimes she’d move when I wasn’t looking, or had left the room. I came back from school to see her with the tea set already out, sitting on her cushion and smiling at the spot I always sat. You’d think I’d be scared, at this point, and I was, but… also not, in a way. For some reason I just felt sure that she wouldn’t hurt me. Foolish, brave, or naive, I’m not sure. …

[He sighs] 

ROBIN: Then she started leaving notes. 

[There's a jolt, as if the Archivist actually straightened up] 

ARCHIVIST: Do you still have them? 

ROBIN: ...Yea, here. 

[There's the sound of a zipper and sounds of rummaging before something is set on the table.]

ROBIN: It’s my diary. I taped the notes in. It… Yea. 

ARCHIVIST, flipping through the pages: Why do some look like they were torn out and put back in? 

ROBIN: Isidora did it. I don’t think she liked me writing about what happened. 

[The page turning stops] 

ARCHIVIST: Do you mind if I borrow this for a few days? 

ROBIN: That’s what I brought it for, Archivist. 

[The tape recorder whines. Note: nowhere in the statement has the Archivist identified himself as such. Curious coincidence.] 

ARCHIVIST: Feel free to resume.

ROBIN: They weren’t long, or complicated. They were sloppy, written in crayon, in a child’s handwriting. They were usually requests, and it started off pretty innocent. “Play with me” and “cookies next time?”, stuff like that. Then she started asking for weird stuff, like a dead bird, and a knife from the kitchen. She said she was going to help me. Looking back, it was pretty obvious what was going to happen. But I was young, and I’d had her for about a year at that point. So I got the stuff she asked for. ...it was around then that I woke up to someone running fingers through my hair. But they were small, cold, too smooth. I didn’t dare open my eyes, or move, too scared to call out. Eventually it stopped, and something slipped off my bed and walked across the room on tiny little feet. ...I still don’t really like people touching my hair because of it. That wasn’t even the worst part. The next day, Isidora was in the bathroom sink, with red smudges all over her and her clothes and hair soaked. When I went to school I found out that the kid who was bullying me, Vincent, had gotten stabbed in the ankle during the night.   
...that was the point that I’d had enough. I went home with the intention of stuffing her in my closet, or the trash. 

[He pauses, and it’s quiet for a minute] 

ROBIN: ...I actually ended up dropping her out my bedroom window. She broke on the concrete below. I went down to find out if she was really gone, then put all the pieces in the trash. Honestly? The fact that she was just porcelain was worse than finding bones or something. I didn’t get a doll again, and I’ve always hated them ever since.

[The tape recorder whirs] 

ARCHIVIST: Statement ends. 

[The tape recorder is turned off, then back on] 

ARCHIVIST: Supplemental. Further examination of the diary seems to follow Mr. Taylor’s statement to the last detail except his account of how the doll broke. Investigations into the couple the doll was purchased from show that they were collectors with a focus on old Russian artifacts. This case is particularly interesting because the statement giver was not the focus of the terror- in fact, the doll seemed to like Mr. Taylor. Mr. Taylor’s mothers didn’t know anything about the incident other than the existence of the doll and the stabbing. I have tried to get Martin to follow up with Mr. Taylor, but he has not yet responded. End supplemental. 

End transcript. Follow up information enclosed in the file. 

—-

Written transcript of case 5056. Transcript begins. 

[Tape recorder clicks on. There is the rustling of paper.]

ARCHIVIST: So, Mr. Taylor. I see you’re back again. 

ROBIN: Please, just call me Robin. And, yea, I suppose I am. Should we, ah, start?

ARCHIVIST: Very well. Second statement of Robin Taylor, regarding…?

ROBIN: My roommate and what ensued. 

ARCHIVIST: Statement begins. 

ROBIN: ...alright. This, um, this actually was pretty recent. A month or so ago. I’m a music and drama teacher- yea, I know. It pays better than you think, though. But I still wanted to get a roommate, especially since my old roommate moved out to live with her fiancée. I really don't like living alone- maybe that's weird, I don't know. I’ve just always lived with someone, and the thought of not doing that seems weird. Anyways, I had a bunch of people applying, at first. I have a pretty big apartment, fairly nice too, with all the utilities and pets allowed. I had some good potential roommates picked out, but about a week after putting up the post, they all suddenly stopped replying. All except for this one guy, Eli Grestarn. It was weird, but the normal kind of weird, you know? So, after texting back and forth, I arranged to meet with him at this cafe nearby. 

[He pauses, shifts in his chair. The table rattles a little as he bounces his leg.] 

ROBIN: He… seemed perfectly normal, actually. A bit too perfectly normal, in some ways. I've never seen a man whose face was that symmetrical. He parted his dark hair perfectly down the middle, had two equally piercing blue eyes that seemed tinged with purple behind a completely straight pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and a wide, shining white grin. He looked about my age, though way taller and with fair skin. We didn't look alike at all, and the differences only continued. He said he was an anesthesiologist- one of those people that deals with the laughing gas, you know? He said that he had a friend who owned a taxidermy shop, too. That's one of the creepiest professions, isn't it? Ick. I can't believe I didn't realize something was up by then. 

ARCHIVIST: Did you ever visit?

ROBIN: Oh, fuck no. 

ARCHIVIST, amused: Continue. 

ROBIN: Well, despite him not being my preferred choice, I hadn't gotten responses back from anyone else, so I took out a one month lease with him. I wasn't really happy, but I thought one month wouldn't hurt. Clearly I was wrong. Things started pretty normal- why do things always start pretty normal? I suppose it would be awful to be plunged straight into crazy stuff, but the slow change is worse. You almost get used to it all. I don't know. Maybe living with that creep changed me.

[Laughs a little] 

ROBIN: Continuing on. He had this taxidermy rabbit, which he insisted on keeping in the main area. It started off just kinda annoying, and a little sad- rabbits are cute, and I don't think anything should be stuffed and hung up like that. But the longer it stayed there, the more it… got on my nerves. The open mouth seemed less like, well, an open mouth, and more like a scream of terror. It's dark, lifeless eyes seemed to stare at me whenever I was in sight. Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe I'm psychotic- I didn't tell my therapist about this, just in case that's what she’d think. But I don't think I am.

[He pauses]

ROBIN: ...Stuff like this has chased me my whole life. I told you about Isidora already, but.. weird stuff just seems to follow me around, no matter where I go. Usually it's not big, just- ugh, like- like strangers that look too familiar, or acquaintances that feel like strangers. Does that make sense? I don't know. Maybe I am crazy. 

ARCHIVIST: Maybe. But I am not under that impression. What happened after the rabbit? 

ROBIN: ...Eli started coming home at weird times, in the middle of the night or at dawn, and he always smelled of this awful chemical smell. I get that it doesn't seem that odd- he works with chemicals for a living, he probably has weird hours- but he hadn't always done that. It was only after a week or so. About two weeks in, he started leaving pages of crazy scrawled codes around. I didn't even try to solve them or read them, I didn't want to get more involved than I already was. I just stacked them up and left them in his room. Then he put all sorts of locks and chains and deadbolts on his bedroom door and refused to let me in, spending all his time in the apartment in his room. That was fine by me- I didn't want to have to talk with him, and I didn't really care about his bedroom. 

ARCHIVIST: I'm guessing on the final week things went wrong?

ROBIN: …yea. I came home and the place was cleaner than it had ever been- he’d done all the dishes, cleaned up his junk, swept and dusted. He’d even gotten me coffee. He seemed super cheerful, apologized for being so moody earlier, talked about how his work was finally going well, that he’d had a breakthrough. I was drinking the coffee as he chattered, and after a few minutes I started to feel sluggish. My limbs felt heavy, numb. He brightened up as I tried to excuse myself, and then he scooped me up with ease and carried me to his bedroom. I thought… Well, I thought the obvious. But once the door was opened and I could see the interior of the room, I realized it was much, much worse. 

[He takes a few deep breaths] 

ROBIN: ...he’d turned the place into a makeshift lab. There was a large metal table in the center of the room, surrounded by trays of tools and bottles of pills and jars of chemicals. The place smelled like a hospital and a morgue combined. Have you ever done a dissection, in school? It reeked like that, like formaldehyde. I tried to struggle, but whatever he’d put in the coffee had rendered me practically dead weight, paralyzed. ...he took off everything but my boxers and got out a permanent marker. He’d been talking the whole time, still so cheerful. He said “it'll be a delight to see your insides, and pull them out one by one”, that “he couldn't wait to see how I liked the new body”. He.. -he labeled all the places he said he was going to cut- the typical y across the chest, down the forearms, down the neck. I-I - fuck, I hate even thinking about it. It was the most scared I’ve been in my entire life. If I had control of my body, I would have been shaking, sobbing, screaming. But I didn't- that was the worst part. There was nothing I could do about it.   
He- he cut the y first. Fairly lightly, breaking the skin but not tearing the muscles. I… I still have the scar. 

ARCHIVIST: Would it be too personal to ask to see it?

ROBIN: …. I suppose. I’ve lent you my diary, how much worse can this be?

[There is a rustling of clothes. There's a small noise of sympathy, then more rustling. The Archivist has verified the scar matches the description given.]

ARCHIVIST: Do you need a moment before you continue?

ROBIN: No, no, it's fine. U-uh, he’d just done that when his phone rang. He scowled, but picked it up, and had a short conversation with someone at the end of the line. He wasn't happy, that much I do remember. I think it was about me- or, kinda. He was being called away or something, and he was annoyed he couldn't finish- finish-...yea. He started packing stuff up, then looked at me like he’d almost forgotten and got out a syringe. ...then he said something that’s stuck with me. “You won't tell anyone, will you? After all, you're practically one of us.” And… I didn't. He injected me and I blacked out, and I woke up on the floor of the now empty room. I… Well, I had a panic attack, and took a few sick days, but no matter how much I wanted to call the police, or someone, anyone, I…. didn't. You're the first I’ve told it to. 

ARCHIVIST: Statement ends. 

[The tape recorder clicks off, then back on] 

ARCHIVIST: Supplemental. This is… another interesting incident, made even more so by the fact that this is the second in the same line. Mr. Taylor also mentioned other, smaller instances that seem to align with the Stranger as well. Is this simply one long campaign of terror, or is there something more to their pursuit? There isn't much to follow up on, given the fact that the other person has vanished, unsurprisingly. I did notice that “Eli Grestarn” can be rearranged into “Stranger lies”, though this is likely just a cruel joke. I had Martin find the post and contact the other possible roommates, who all said that Mr. Taylor suddenly hadn't responded to any of their emails, texts, or calls. The neighbour does remember a strange man around this time period, which, along with the scar, lends even more credibility to this statement. I have asked for Mr. Taylor to be checked up on every few months by an intern to see if he has had any more encounters, or if the Strangers odd focus on him has proven fatal. Supplemental ends.

End transcript. See supplemental files for more information. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's was something new. I don't often do script style writing, but I had a chance where it would make narrative sense, so I tried it out! It's alright if you didn't like it, but I think it was a good way to tell the events without getting swamped down in the details. since this wasn't really connected to the current plot points (though it clearly is setting up future ones), I'm hoping to have another chapter up soon. thanks to everyone who wished me happy birthday, and for all the comments!! you guys are the best.   
> thanks for reading!! :3


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations, reflections, hallways, dreams and doors.

Tim slid the folder back into the case file, and the file back into the box. His mind was racing, trying to connect all the information he’d just read into something that made a reasonable amount of sense. It wasn't working. But beyond Robin and his relationship with the Stranger, something was bothering Tim.   
“Hey, Martin?” He said hesitantly, kicking the box away from his desk so he could roll his chair back to see his coworker. Martin looked up, a bit startled, from the statement he was typing up.   
“Yea?”   
“Robin- Mr. Taylor, a statement giver, said that his therapist mentioned working with a relation of Michael's. Has he ever talked about his family?”   
Martin frowned, scrunching his nose up in focused thought. “...no, actually. I mean, I didn't know Melanie had a brother until a few months ago, though, so that's not saying much. He… also doesn't like talking about his past. Who do you think it is? A cousin or something?”  
Tim shrugged, scooting his chair back to his desk. “I dunno. Want to take a look into it? Probably lives in London.”  
Martin sighed a little. “First off, London is a big place. There’s got to be more than one Shelley around. Second, I don't think I should be prying into his life like that.”  
“Then just ask him about it. Where is he, anyways? He is working here part time, right?”   
“Yea, he’s off checking on some follow up in some office building. Elias didn't question him at all, really. He still had his old contract. And I think he didn't want to get involved.”   
“Shouldn't that be weird?” Tim asked, frowning. “Avatar of the Spiral working for the Eye?”  
“Maybe? I guess that all the false statements would be good for him. I honestly have no clue how being an Avatar works.”  
“But you will look into relatives?”   
“....ok, ok.”  
Tim grinned triumphantly, and Martin rolled his eyes a little. Then Martin returned to his work and Tim went back to staring at the papers scattered across his desk. He picked up his thermos and took a sip, picking up the paper it had been pinning down and resisting the urge to call the number scrawled on it. 

\---

Olivia was waiting in the ground floor lobby when she saw him.   
It wasn't like he didn't catch the eye- his long messy blond hair, teal jacket and striped scarf were a sharp contrast to the slicked back suited employees. Immediately Olivia was stuck by how similar he was to the way Amanda described her deceased brother- though that was to be expected, seeing as she often thought about her clients. Her second impression was that he was incredibly nervous, clearly unused to the building and its occupants and not pleased that he was gathering as much attention as he was. After a seconds pause, she stood up and walked over to him.  
“Can I help you with something?” She asked, trying to be as gentle sounding as possible. He relaxed a little at her tone.   
“Uh-um, yea. -Yeah, I'm looking for- Gilligan and Smith? Um, I want to talk to an employee there,” he mumbled, glancing at the crumpled note in his hand for reference.   
“Oh, that's on the fifth floor. I can show you, if you want.”   
He blinked with his large green eyes. Were they green? She had a hard time telling in the light.   
“Y-you, um, wouldn't mind? You weren't doing something?”   
“No, no it's alright, I have some time. I'm Olivia. You?”  
“...Michael.”  
Olivia actually did pause, for a second, part way through turning towards the elevator. What a strange coincidence. Maybe she was just starting to see patterns where there were none, though it certainly was odd.   
“Nice to meet you, Michael.”  
He followed as she began to weave her way through the lobby to the elevators, though frowned a little, having noticed the pause.   
“...is something wrong? Did I do something wrong?”   
“No, no, you just reminded me of someone I've heard about,” she said, waving a hand dismissively, passing the massive front wall of windows. It was then she saw something out of the corner of her eye, in a slightly warped portion of the glass.   
She could see her own reflection, faint but clear. But where Michael’s reflection should have been was something…. distorted. He was taller, thinner, sharper than should have been possible, and his hands were large and his fingers were practically claws. Where his eyes should have been were yawning, swirling spirals. It made her nauseous to watch, the constantly shifting and changing and glitching reflection of what was so clearly not there.   
She blinked. The grotesque image did not budge.   
She pinched herself. It just hurt.   
“...um.. Ms.- uh, Olivia? Are you ok?”   
She turned, and there was Michael, the actual Michael, worried looking, hand hesitantly outstretched. But the more she looked at him, the more she could find things that were decidedly wrong. His hair wasn't that curly before. His eyes… they had definitely changed.   
She felt like she should be panicking. It would be a perfectly reasonable response, even to a hallucination. If it was a hallucination, which of course it was, even though Olivia had never had one in her life, nor had any family history of schizophrenia. Yet somehow, though she trembled, her voice was relatively calm.  
“Are you actually here?”   
Michael blinked. “Um. Yes? I mean, I think so?”   
“Can I grab your hand?” Visual and tactile hallucinations paired together were less common, though it was still possible that she could feel something.   
“Sure?”   
She took his hand. It was larger than hers by a bit, and chilly, but still a human hand. She turned to consult her reflection.   
As she did, she could feel the hand… shift, grow longer and thinner and sharper, until it matched the image she could see faintly in the glass. When she turned back to Michael, the sensation didn't change back.   
“What are you?” She asked, quiet. He jumped, and yanked his hand back.  
“-h-what? I- I don't know what you're talking about.” Michael’s hands started flapping a little, and he bit his lip, not daring to make eye contact.  
“Did you purposely choose the name Michael, and that appearance? Just to taunt me?” She said, staring at him intently with a stubborn edge to her gaze. That made him look up, genuinely surprised.   
“Huh? What do you mean?”  
“Come on. The long blond hair? Michael? You probably know how much I care about my patients. Is it some sort of sick joke?”   
“...patient? I- what, has someone talked about me? I- who?”   
A few people were beginning to stare, even Olivia could notice that, and so did Michael, though much more nervously.  
“...come on, let's talk somewhere private.” He grabbed her hand and led her down a hall, and to a door that Olivia didn't really remember being there. He opened it and pulled her through, closing it behind him. She barely had time to protest before she realized there was no possible way this place could exist and the door they had walked through vanished, leaving them in an impossible hallway.   
“...I'm dreaming,” she said out loud, mostly to herself. That was the only reasonable explanation. She must have drifted off.   
“I- you said patient,” Michael said, pacing a little, hands still flapping, hair trailing slowly behind him. “I- who? I only thought people told the Institute- but… that does make sense, I guess.”   
“Stop pretending to look human,” Olivia said, a bit hurt by the continuation of the charade. She crossed her arms protectively over her chest. “Stop abusing the memory of Michael Shelley.”   
That made Michael stop in his tracks, almost as if frozen.   
“...you know my name?”  
“It's not your name. It's the name of Amanda’s dead brother,” she said, a bit flatly. The whole situation was bothering her more than it should, getting on her nerves, even though she knew it wasn't real.   
“...Amanda? You know Amanda? She still lives in London?” His eyes widened. “I- I’ve got to see her. I… I honestly didn't think she still lived here. Even if she does… w-why would she want to see me? We never really got along well…” His pacing grew more frantic, the human aspects peeling away as he lost focus, until he had shifted into the monstrous form Olivia had seen in the window.   
“You're part of my imagination. You already know this.”   
“I- you really think you're dreaming?” He stopped, turning his… Well, they weren't really eyes anymore, just endless spiralling pits that hurt to look at- to her.   
“..I mean, yes? It's the only reasonable explanation.”   
“Amanda was always a skeptic too,” he said, resuming his looping walk. He never actually turned, and yet, he was never very far away from Olivia. She felt a headache begin to form as she tried to rationalize the impossibility of it all. “She… she wasn't there when Lucy and I went into the yarn shop. She didn’t see… see…”   
His hands, even as sharp and large as they were, knotted together anxiously.   
“...was that the incident when you were 12?” Olivia asked warily.  
“...Did she mention it? I… I suppose she did. I… I wasn't ok for a long time after that. And it's what led me to the Institute.”   
“...have you ever told anyone about it?” It sounded like it had been an incredibly traumatic experience, especially for someone that young, and Amanda had often recounted the sheer despair that seemed to consume him for a time afterwards. Even if this was a dream, and this- Well, the thing that used to be Michael Shelley, wasn't real, she… she couldn't help but want to do her job.   
“...I made a statement,” he said. “G- …. the old archivist took it. But I don't think that really counts.”   
Olivia noticed the way he faltered on the name.   
“Was she your boss?”   
Michael nodded.   
“I… I don't like talking about her. She… she…”   
His hands untangled themselves and began to flicker out letters rapidly in BSL. It took a second to recognize the familiar shapes, but then Olivia could string together the words.  
FED ME TO IT.   
“...is this connected to the disappearance?” She asked, curious despite herself. He nodded.   
“Do you want to talk about it?” Olivia watched his face closely.   
...SANNIKOV LAND. ISLAND OFF RUSSIA THAT NEVER WAS. TOOK SHIP WITH G. SAID SHE NEEDED HELP. SPIRAL DANCE. DOOR. ENTERED.   
He gestured around at the endless hall.   
HERE. BUT NOT HERE. DIFFERENT HERE.   
“And you got stuck?”   
TRAPPED. TEN YEARS LOST.  
“...but not anymore?”   
He shook his head.   
...GOT OUT, BUT PART STAYED. NEW ME. NOT… HUMAN.   
“... this G- what’s her full name?”   
GERTRUDE. ARCHIVIST, BUT NO LONGER.   
“This Gertrude- you're saying she let you… be taken?”  
FED ME TO IT. He nodded in confirmation.  
Olivia paused. It was a fantastical story- one that had obvious gaps and couldn't actually happen, of course- but one that this… being seemed to believe with its whole heart. She could clearly tell how upset the topic made him, as the longer the conversation went on, the faster he shifted and the further from human he strayed.   
HOW AMANDA? OK?   
“I can't really say,” Olivia said. Michael frowned.   
KNOW WHERE SHE LIVES?   
“Well, yes, technically I have access to her file. But I wouldn't give it to you even if you were real. You're clearly not stable enough to be having that kind of reunion.”   
That seemed to upset him even more, his hair now clearly curling into spirals, floating impossibly. He clenched his hands.   
“I am real,” he said, struggling to form the words. His voice echoed in ways it shouldn't.   
“No, you're not. This is a dream.” She was starting to actually feel calm about the situation, ignoring the absurdity of the situation.   
“I-it's not. I.. I can prove it.”   
“How?”   
“I- I-” he looked around hurriedly, frantic. “I- Martin can help. Martin will help. I've got to… got to find… find. Look.”   
Olivia watched as he reached into the wall, the paint and drywall peeling back, and a door emerged, the same as the one before. But when he opened it, it wasn't back into the building. Michael grabbed her hand, narrowly avoiding cutting her, and pulled her out with him. The second he was out of the hallways, his humanity seemed to seep back, but there were clear cracks in his disguise where Olivia could see the creature underneath. He let her go once they were out, looking up and down the quiet street. He brightened as he seemed to find what he was looking for, and took off running.   
Olivia watched, a bit confused and bewildered, then shrugged and took after him. She might as well see what her mind had to offer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohoho! A climax, mayhaps??   
> tbh I wasn't sure if I wanted to end this chapter here, but I wasn't sure how to start the next part, so I decided to put this out as a bit short and cliffhangery.   
> I've started a tag for this fic on tumblr and instagram! #sdadmip for both. It's mostly my art or ramblings, but I made art of Robin last chapter and Michael and Olivia this chapter that's on that's tag! (Or @redribbonmagpie on instagram). feel free to use the tag if you want!   
> thanks for all the comments, kudos, and for reading!!


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